The Mouth: An Aside
by Fyrefly
Summary: #3. Deadpool double-shot. Siryn, aka Theresa Rourke Cassidy, is a student at the X-mansion. One night she spots a mysterious masked man outside on the X-mansion grounds. A movie rendition of a comic theme.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: The Mouth (An Aside)**

**Rating: M for language, smut, and possible squick factor. **

**Summary: Deadpool double-shot. Siryn, a student at the X-mansion, spots a mysterious masked man outside on the grounds at night. A movie rendition of a comic theme. **

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I was only ten years old when the X-mansion was invaded for the first time—at least, the first time since I'd come there. Instincts took over—I threw back my head and let out the shrillest scream I knew. I don't remember much of what happened after that, except that I woke up with a bruise the size of a man's fist. Apparently, I had been knocked out—but Piotr, dear Colossus, carried me on a path of safety blazed by Bobby Drake and Logan.

Still, it was enough for me. I was never a sound sleeper after that, even in the mansion—which was, truly, the safest place I'd ever known. When Professor Xavier died, it became even harder for me to sleep at night. Jamie Madrox would sometimes creep into my room at night and try to ease me slumber, but nighttime made me twitchy. It had never been a pleasant time for me, even before the invasion: as a child, nighttime had not been hours of rest and slumber, but a seeming-eternity of uncertainty and fear.

I had been raised by my Uncle Tommy—who wasn't really my uncle at all, but a second cousin. He was a high-class thief, and as a kid I had helped him in his illegal activities with my scream. At night, he would "conduct business," as he called it, down in the kitchen while I slept. I can't tell you how many times I lay awake at night, violent arguments ringing in my ears, threats of bodily harm that no child should have to overhear. I remember a few times hearing the dull thud of fists-on-flesh, and once a man beat Uncle Tommy so badly that he couldn't get up. I crawled under my bed, ten years old and terrified, as the man came upstairs to try and find whatever it was he felt he was owed. Instead, he found me, his big hands like cold meat on my ankles. I remember how my knees skittered over the hardwood floor, skinning, burning, and how I clawed at the covers and the edge of the bedframe.

"This is Black Tom's little lass? …Teach him to cheat _me,_" the man growled, and then something unintelligable, something I didn't understand at the time and am grateful I do not remember now. He rucked up my nightgown to my hips and snapped the waistband of my panties, throwing them aside. I screamed, thinking he would double over in pain and leave me alone, for as long as I could keep the sound high enough.

He did double over, but then struck me with the back of his hand. My head snapped sideways and I bit my tongue—hard. Blood filled my mouth and I choked on it.

Then there was a gunshot, and the man blinked down at me, muttered something, and collapsed on top of me. Uncle Tommy, still clutching his ribs, lifted the man off and flung him aside.

"Are ye okay, Tessa girl?"

I spat out the blood, nodding and guttering, trying to cover myself. Poor Uncle Tommy. He was good to me, in spite of it all, and in spite of the hatred he bore my father—I never did understand why.

But then Uncle Tommy died. I was only nine, and I didn't know what I was going to do. But somehow—through telepathy or some other, more traditional means—Professor Xavier heard about me. He and Professor Monroe actually attended Uncle Tommy's funeral, and afterward, he took my hands.

"Theresa Rourke Cassidy?" he asked. I know now that it was only a formality to keep me unafraid—Professor Xavier knew who I was the moment his mind touched mine. "I was a friend of your father's," he said quietly, his voice soothing.

Immediately I distrusted him, because Uncle Tommy had always told me that my father was traitor and a fool, quick to judge, slow to forgive. But then Professor Xavier told me about the school, and I began to think. Where else could I go? Perhaps I was stepping into dangerous waters—perhaps there was no school at all; perhaps it was a testing facility or something similarly dark and secret—but there was nothing for me here.

And so I went. Over the sea and into a strange land, just like the fairy tales. The mansion—could you even really call it that? It was more of a castle—sprawled out over beautiful grounds that allowed for study and play in the most amazing of ways. In spite of the fact that Uncle Tommy made fairly good money, either through personal or mercenary theft, I had never seen this kind of opulence.

The moment I stepped through the big oak door, my eyes on the ceiling, the walls, Jamie ran into me. Well, one of him. As we both staggered back, there was a faint _popping _noise, and three more Jamies collided with his downed form, sliding together as he was jarred out of concentration.

"Holy crap!" he muttered fiercely. "Watch where you're—"

And he froze when he looked at me. From that point on, Jamie Madrox never looked at me with anything but moons and stars in his eyes.

"I'm sorry," he rushed out, scrambling to his feet and offering me a hand up. I was scowling, irritated, even as Professor Xavier smiled amusedly and Professor Monroe raised en eyebrow. "I didn't—you must be the new girl, Theresa Cassidy. We're playing hide-and-seek tag, and uh, I'm it." A lopsided grin: he'd been caught cheating. "D'you wanna play?"

I took another step back, going from annoyance to confusion immediately. I had never had a chance to play with children my own age back in Ireland, and I cast a baffled look up at Professor Monroe. When it became clear the adults were not going to help me, I stammered, "I—I have to unpack. I'm sorry. Maybe—some other time?"

His smile faltered a little, but he nodded, and then to my surprise picked up my suitcase. "Well, let me help welcome you then. Which room is it?"

Jamie became a dear friend, introducing me to some of the other students. There was a time when I was cow-eyed for sweet Piotr, who was so quiet and gentle. I confess a certain weakness for silent, lost-looking men, men who were strong enough to move mountains but very conscious and careful with that strength. But Piotr was much older than me, one of the campus legends, like Marie D'Ancanto and Bobby Drake and John St. Allerdyce. They were all part of the Dream Team at the School: elegant and strong and fourteen. They even had beautiful names, and I was jealous in a way.

Skinny and pale, with a mane of carroty hair, I was just plain Theresa Cassidy. Not even Tessa the Thief—not anymore. _Terry._

Boring.

And Jamie, for all his boyish charm and his dear friendship, certainly didn't make me feel any less boring. The three of us--Jamie, myself, and a sullen-looking feral girl named Maria Callasanto, who was obviously crushing on Jamie and deeply jealous of my own budding friendship with him--would spend a lot of time together, but it all seemed mundane to me. Any chance for adventure was too far in the future for me to envision. I couldn't even be an X-man yet: despite the fact that my mutation had manifested at a young age and that I had been doing a dangerous job ever since, Professor Xavier deemed me "too young."

At seven I learned that I shared my father's gift for the sonic scream, and began helping Uncle Tommy in his work.

At eight I was nearly raped, and survived stronger than ever.

At nine, I finally understood what it was like to be an orphan. I made the decision to move to another country and take on the adventure of the School for Gifted Youngsters, despite my tender age.

At ten, I had warned the entire school the night that the mansion was broken into by government operatives.

Still, I wasn't good enough. Strong enough. Too thin, too weak, too tiny. It didn't matter what I did: to the X-men and the professors, I was always skinny little Terry. Careful of her—she might break.

Her only power is in her scream: the cry of a victim.

As tough as I tried to be—as clever and witty and sharp and demanding—I still couldn't sleep at night. My pale skin showed the shadows under my eyes like bruises. Jamie would sneak in at night with a deck of cards or a board game. Occasionally—the dear—he would bring me chocolate-covered almonds and peanut butter balls, which I ate voraciously. Sometimes, he would stay till I fell asleep.

I did love Jamie, I think. But even then, I knew it wasn't the kind of love that moved continents. Real love is like Pangea, I think. The foundations of the earth shift, puzzle-pieces dividing and coming together in the slow rising of mountains and volcanoes. Glaciers scrape the land clean. Lakes and rivers are created; old ones dry up or perhaps are even lost forever, buried beneath new hills. Home is transformed.

Jamie was sweet and uncomplicated, steady. His hand in mine was one of the sweetest things I'd known. His mouth, the first time we kissed, tasted like the Reese's Pieces we'd just been sharing. His lips were warm and soft. There was a safety in Jamie, something I wasn't entirely used to. Life was restful with him, peaceful. A girl could get lazy, comfortable. Complacent.

Then John St. Allerdyce left. It was unfathomable: that he had removed himself from the school, from the Dream Team. That he'd gone to join the Brotherhood. At the same time, like a wound that overshadowed the unbelievable fact of John's betrayal, Professor Grey died. And came back, killing Professor Xavier in the process.

And then she died again.

Poor Logan. To have to lose her twice—and the second time, the way he did…

The man, not really a professor but certainly a respected—and intimidating—figure on campus, was torn apart. The rumor was that he had been forced to kill Professor Grey, to save her from herself—and to save the world. I couldn't imagine such a thing. And though their story was tragic, it only made me feel more keenly what I did _not_ have with Jamie. Ours was not a love that defied or transcended the mortal coil.

Logan left the school. He was the kind of man who needs a purpose: something to drive him. Once, that purpose had been Jean. Now he was searching, grasping at straws. The rumor around the school was that he had been involved in a government program in the sixties, and they were responsible for his lost memories. He had learned some things about it, just before Professor Grey had died the first time. Now, with her gone for good, he was leaving to explore other leads and see if he could recapture what he'd lost.

He did. He came back. Then he left again, this time with Professor Monroe, and Bobby and Rogue in tow—something about confronting Sabertooth. I didn't know if they'd ever come back.

They did, though, and a few months later, the school—which had expanded under Professor Monroe into a series of branches and had been renamed "The Xavier Institute for Higher Learning"—opened its doors to a new mutant. His name was Robert Roman and he was a mutant who—somewhat like me—could control sound. His power wasn't the same, but it was close, and though the new student kept to himself, I felt a little less alone in the world.

Perhaps I should have been content with this—the company of Jamie, the presence of another phonophilic mutant, the childish combination of friendship and one-sided rivalry I had with Maria Callasantos. But I found I never could really connect with any of them, that they left me feeling hollow. I wanted to meet someone who could drive deep into the heart of life, who saw things as they were.

Eleven-year-olds shouldn't have to feel so alone, I think.

Six more years passed. Sleep never got any easier for me, especially not with Sabertooth showing up every once in a while, now, and Logan and the others—Piotr, Marie, Roman, Bobby, Kitty—all taking off on missions I knew nothing about. Going to places where I couldn't help them, and leaving me in the dark. I would stare out the window, unable to sleep, both tense and at the same time unutterably _bored_ with my life. The silence ground into me, suffocating, cloying.

It was a night like this that the tectonic plates shifted beneath me.

"Terry. Come to bed, honey."

I eyed Jamie. With Logan and Xavier gone, and Professor Monroe as well as some of our most elite students, sleep did not come easy, and I found myself increasingly uncomfortable with Jamie. He was expecting things from me that I couldn't give him--not sexually, but emotionally. He believed that what we shared was enough to last a lifetime, but I knew I couldn't survive on such limited nourishment. I had been avoiding his kisses lately. Usually, in the past years, I would lean behind him and wrap my arms around his waist, rest my head between his shoulders. Sometimes I would press gentle kisses to the back of his neck. Now, I was afraid of anything that would encourage him. I didn't want to break his heart. Foolishly, I hoped that my frigidity would convince him to leave me, as if such a thing would be painless.

Ridiculous, really. All it did was offer up a slow death.

"Why don't you go back down to your room, Jamie," I said quietly. The tone of my voice made it anything but a question. "I'll be fine tonight."

He gnawed at his lip, looking at me with troubled eyes. "Are you sure?"

I turned away, leaning on the sill and looking out the window. "Yes," I told him firmly. "Go hang out with Maria—I'll be fine. I'd like to be alone, I think."

I heard him ease off the bed, the slight shift of the mattress and blankets. He said nothing as he left, and the door clicked shut behind him.

That was when I saw it: the shadow at the edge of the grounds. A silhouette in the shape of a massive man: bigger than Logan, by far. Bulky, and definitely taller. For a moment, I wondered if it was Piotr, but he was on a mission with Marie and Bobby and Kitty. Besides, the way he was creeping at the periphery, sticking to the shadows—this was not the behavior of a person welcome at the mansion.

I stared harder—and then a shift of the figure, and a flick of the fingers—and I realized he was _waving_ at me.

I thought about running to Professor Monroe's room, letting her know what I'd seen. But for some reason, the thought seemed foolish: why run for help when I had been aching for adventure myself? What time was better than now to prove that I _could,_ that I _would, _that I was strong enough?

The folly of youth.

I grabbed a zippered sweatshirt and headed out the door. I would find this man, and demand to know his purpose for being here. And if I didn't like his answer…well, I would make his head explode.

When I got to the edge of the property, I gazed around, peering into the shadows. I couldn't see anything—at all, at all. I hesitated, standing back and debating using my echolocation. I drew in a breath of preparation when the world spun backward and I suddenly found myself facing the mansion instead of the woods, a thick hand clamped over both my mouth and my nose, my back pressed against something as hard and broad as a wall.

And hot.

I had been shivering from the cold in my sweatpants and sweatshirt—now I found heat seeping into my bones. Whoever this man was, he was like a furnace.

"You a screamer or a moaner?"

I blinked. I could _hear_ the leer in his voice, but I knew it was a straightforward question. I shook my head—_no—_by which I meant, _I won't scream._

Silly Tessa Cassidy. Give in to the criminal as soon as he asks. I had been foolish to think, at seventeen, that I would be able to take him down on my own.

Still, I was stubborn.

"Geez, kid, how old are you anyway? I thought you were a grown-up when I watched you earlier but you don't even look legal."

I shuddered, wondering how long he'd been out there. I left my blinds open because I liked to wake up to the sun, and whenever I was doing anything that required privacy, all the students were inside for curfew. But now I wondered if he'd seen me stripping off my dayclothes and wriggling into my sweatpants and tanktop. Unexpectedly, I felt something in my abdomen tighten, and I realized—to my horror—that if he hadn't been smothering me with his massive palm, I would have been blushing with heat.

I made a muffled noise, which I hoped he would understand to mean, _I can't answer you when you are suffocating me._

He eased his hand down to my throat—they were the size of dinner-plates—and I huffed at him, "I'm seventeen."

He barked a laugh.

"So anyway," he said. I got the sense he was grinning from the lilt in his voice. I also got the sense he liked to hear himself talk. "Can Jimmy come out to play?"

I half-turned my head to look up at him. He wore a mask, tucked tight into whatever he was wearing around his throat. It was red and black, and I could see the vague outline of his features underneath. His face was broad beneath the taut fabric.

"We don't have a Jimmy here," I said after a minute, "and I have a feeling _you're_ not supposed to be here either."

"Aw, really? Did the mask give it away?"

I snorted in spite of myself and I could feel him grinning. His hands, one at my throat and the other around my ribs, tightened.

"Now this is what I like," he mocked. "A captive audience." I sneered at him, but I had to admit: he was witty. Clever.

Mouthy.

"So what do I gotta do to get your little friends to come out here?" he asked.

"You _want_ to hear me scream, then?" I threatened.

"Aw, man. You have _got _ to meet my friend Vic." A pause. He tilted his head. The shape of his mask reminded me of Casper the Friendly Ghost. "Well, maybe not. You might be too young for his tastes."

"Why do I think that's a good thing?"

"Aw, princess—you'd like my friends. Besides, Vic's favorite come-on in the whole world is _scream for me."_

Something in the way he said it led me to believe he didn't like this Vic-character very much. I made a face of contempt.

"Yeah, I know," the man conceded. "Not very original. Vic's one gun short of an arsenal, if ya know what I mean. Anyway, as I was saying: Jimmy. Get 'im out here. I've got a bone to break with him."

"We don't. _Have._ A Jimmy," I repeated through clenched teeth.

"You _are_ a feisty one. You know I'm a killer, right?"

"All the 'skulking in shadows' didn't tip me off," I snarked back, furious.

"Jimmy. Jimmy. I've been tracking him for years—I know he's here somewhere. 'Bout your height? Built like two bulls? He's one hairy motherfucker; got a face like a brick." A pause. "Oh yeah. And he's got a nifty little trick, like me." The hand that was at my throat suddenly flexed, just lightly, and with a slow _schink,_ a long single blade slid from between his knuckles.

I flinched and without thinking, I murmured, _"Logan."_

"That's it, princess. Jimmy Logan. Jimmy Creed. Jimmy Howlett. Damn, the guy's had more names than I've had girlfriends."

"Really?" I snarled. "And you're such a charmer."

"We all have our crosses to bear," he replied smoothly. "So, kiddo—go get the heavy artillery. Where's the weasel?"

"Logan's not in right now," I sneered. "Please leave a message after the tone—"

He spun me around, hoisting me up by the collar of my sweatshirt and pinning me against a treetrunk. My toes dangled helplessly, a good foot or more off the ground.

"Look, doll—can I call you doll? I think—"

"My name is Theresa," I snapped. "Theresa Rourke Cassidy."

"Rourke Cassidy? Sounds like a pirate's name."

"I'm not a pirate," I said evenly. "Leastways—not anymore."

"Really? You were a pirate? I'd've pegged you for more the princess-type. As I was saying, sweetheart, I think I'll just wait around for him, if you don't mind. And if you do mind, I'll just kill you."

"We don't even know when he'll be back," I snapped. "He's gone to find Saberooth."

A snort, a snicker. "No kidding? Family reunion?"

"We have a truce with him now," I snapped. I debated struggling, trying to get down from where he held me pinned. The fact of the matter was that he could snap me in half like a twig, if he wanted. Plus, I could clearly see—even in the darkness—that he was carrying more weapons than I could accurately count.

"With Creed?" the masked man asked, marveling. "No shit?"

"No shit," I snarled. I thought about kicking him in the chin. He was holding me high enough: I could reach easily, and I had a powerful kick.

"Don't even think about it, Rourke," he said jovially. "I'll chew off your fucking ankle."

I must have blanched. I believed him, actually. Still, I didn't know how to shut up. "For someone who claims to have done his homework—"

"The dog ate it."

"—you sure don't know much about Logan these days."

"You wanna take him a message for me, princess?"

"The _name_ is _Theresa._"

"You know, it's dangerous when a killer has you pinned to a tree and wants to leave a message for your friend. That usually ends in blood."

"Do you even _listen_ to anyone but yourself?" I snarled.

"Selective hearing. It's a gift."

I rolled my eyes. "You can let me go and walk away and I won't say anything. Unless you want me to. Or you can kill me, but not before I wake everyone in that mansion with a warning scream and probably bust open your eardrums."

"You _are_ a screamer!"

He sounded delighted. "One-track mind much?" I snapped.

"I do what I can," he said lightly, falsely modest. "What can I say, princess? I'm a crude, lewd bastard."

"I'll give you a brain hemhorrage."

"Yay! Blood!"

I stared at him. Was there no winning? The wost part was that he actually seemed _amused_ by it all, a little giddy, almost rocking on his toes. "I could _kill_ you," I said, clearly and succinctly.

He shrugged, his mask stretching over his grin. "You could try," he sing-songed. "I have the best healing factor around."

I snorted. "Fat chance. Logan does."

"Where do you think I got mine, dollface?"

I was perplexed by this sudden ominous remark, but before I could question it, he was easing me down, my feet coming to rest on the ground.

"I think I'm gonna let you go, screamer. You're fun to talk at."

I noticed the _at. _

"I'm an even better conversationalist with both feet on the ground," I growled. It was probably not my brightest move—scorning the man who was letting me walk free—but I was incensed. "Wish I could say I had as much fun."

"Yeah," he agreed. "Sucks to be you." Slowly, he released the collar of my sweatshirt.

I paused, a little confused, and looked up at him quizzically. _Surely,_ I remember thinking: _surely it can't be that easy. _

"Well, go on then, Captain Cassidy. I'll keep watch tonight."

I hesitated and stumbled forward a step. He caught me by the shoulders easily.

"You don't have to throw yourself at me, hot stuff."

I glared up at him, but most of the fire was gone. "Is there—aren't you going to threaten me? Tell me not to say anything? Or tell me something that I _should_ say?"

He tilted his head as though mystified. "No. Do I seem like someone who abides by rules of polite conversation?"

Truly, the man was operating on a different plane of existence than the rest of us.

I turned then, quickly, and ran. I was certain he was going to pull one of the massive guns from his belt and shoot me square in the back. I would hear the sound of the bullet and fall to my knees long before I felt the pain.

As I neared the door, though, the only sounds I heard were my own panting gasps, the sound of my heart in my ears.

I reached the door. The knob was cold in my hand as I twisted it and nearly fell inside, leaning heavily on the doorframe.

I looked back. Though I couldn't see his eyes, I knew he was staring at me, matching gazes. Then he lifted his hand again in a little, mocking wave for the second time that night.

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"Terry?"

I flinched at the sound of Jamie's voice.

"You look like you didn't sleep all night."

I hesitated, then turned back to him and smiled wanly. Maria was at his left side, scowling. I enjoyed Maria's company—sometimes—but other days it took all my patience to deal with her rabid temper. Still, I controlled myself for Jamie's sake.

"It took a while, but I slept _well,"_ I told him. It was true. Usually I couldn't go to bed, and when I did, every creak and shift in the mansion woke me. Not so last night: once I got my heartrate down, washed my face, took a few deep breath, I found I slept better than I had in…well, maybe since I was ten.

_Go on then, Captain Cassidy. I'll keep watch tonight._

I told myself that the cure to my insomnia was adventure. I had been living a life of slow boredom, and as a result my brain couldn't shut off. It wanted to keep going. Last night's encounter had exhausted me though, mentally as well as physically. The adrenaline had been rushing through my veins, and I had been sweating with fear and excitement.

I knew, even as I tried to justify it to myself, that it wasn't entirely true. A little bit, perhaps, but not all.

The stranger had definitely been—_stranger._ Matching wits with him would have been enjoyable, if not for the threat of imminent death. And his body—the heat that had poured off it, the hardness of it as I was pressed against it—

I shivered.

I had never been one to be attracted to loud, brash men. Piotr, with his quiet sweetness, had always been my ideal: a sweet man, a gentle giant. A mystery, quiet and lost and needing to be found. I wanted to hunt for him, discover what was true underneath, what made him tick.

And then there was the man in the shadows, who was anything but quiet or sweet or lost. There was no gentleness in him, and there was nothing underneath to find. Just sarcasm, and cleverness, and wit.

Still, intelligence could be a turn-on, I supposed. And he was the only man I knew who had talked to me like an adult.

And he was _adventure. _

Perhaps it was my own conflict in this that kept me from telling anyone what I'd seen. That night, when Jamie tried to stay with me again, I told him I had really slept so well on my own and would like to try it again.

"Maybe my days of needing someone to stay with me are over," I told him gently. I knew by the way his eyes widened that he understood what I meant. "Maybe I've grown away from that." I felt vaguely guilty as I watched him go, but I knew I had done the right thing. Sweet Jamie. He needed a woman who was as light and accepting as he was, one who would bask in the comfort he provided.

As for me, I needed something else. Playing along with Jamie would only hurt him more in the end.

When I looked out the window that night, I didn't see anyone at first. It was strange, the feeling in my throat and mouth: almost like disappointment. But then he melted from the shadows, a dark figure with one arm raised in a stiff mock-salute.

Without thinking, I saluted back. "At ease, soldier," I whispered, and then crept away from the window and crawled into bed.

He stayed for weeks. He really was, I realized, waiting for Logan. I had thought he'd get bored and either leave or attack the school—he seemed, after all, like the impatient type—but he didn't. I was amazed that one of the feral students didn't smell him, and no-one seemed to notice him or see him.

Except me. I slept soundly every night.

Finally, one evening, watching the clock shift past the early morning hours, I slipped out of the house. My heart was pounding. There was no guarantee he would let me go a second time.

"Hey yoooou."

It was a playful drawl. I whirled toward the sound of his voice. He was lounging against a tree, grinning through his mask.

"I was hoping you'd come on down, screamer. It's been boring as hell around here."

I waved a hand at him dismissively. "It's always boring here," I said, and watched his eyes widen. I cringed: he was filing that bit of unfiltered opinion away for future reference, I was sure. Trying to distract him, I added meaningfully, "Especially when Logan is gone. We don't know when he's coming back, you know."

"So you said." He paused, tilted his head. "You want me to leave, Captain Cass?"

I scowled. "Why do you call me that?"

"It's piratey. _Captain Rourke Cassidy. _Hey! Do you have a peg leg? Say _arrrr._"

I put my hands on my hips. "I'm about two seconds away from giving _you_ a pegleg."

"I've already _got_ wood."

I made a face.

"Besides, princess, you know you like me. Sh, sh, it's okay. You're helpless against my good looks and charm."

"I don't even know your _name."_

"You're not denying it though, are you?"

"I am _not_ attracted to y—"

"You didn't tattle on me."

I fell silent. He was right, after all: at least on this count.

"You're a mouthy little bitch," he said good-naturedly, as though it were a compliment, "and I don't think you would let me get away with this if you didn't like me, just a little."

A minute passed. Two. Again, he displayed a remarkable aptitude for patience. It seemed, at first, at odds with his fast-paced snark, but I realized after a beat that he also understood comedic timing.

"You're clever," I compromised at last. "And funny. Intelligent."

"Yeah," he agreed. I could tell he was grinning. "I am."

A pause.

"And the name's Deadpool. Rhymes with _dead cool."_

"Scratch that bit about _intelligent_," I said dryly. "I spoke too soon."

He ignored me. It seemed a habit when he didn't want to hear what was being said. I was almost jealous of the ease with which he did it. "So what's the purpose of this little visit? You gonna throw yourself in my arms? Tell me to wait just one more year, when you'll be legal?"

I wrinkled my nose. "Are you serious?"

"You're right," he acknowledged. "I kill people for a living. Statutory rape is a drop in the well."

"I'm here to _tell_ you," I said sharply, "that you're wasting your time. Logan isn't here, and we don't know when he'll be back, and—what are you doing?"

He'd peeled back the lower part of his mask, tucking it over his nose, and pulled a Mountain Dew out of the tall grass at the base of the tree.

"Taking a drink, doll; whaddaya think? A man could get dehydrated."

"Especially one who talks as much as you do," I acknowledged. "That's almost entirely sugar, anyway—forget about it hydrating you," I added, gesturing to the can with my chin. My eyes, however, were on his mouth, his chin, his nose. His skin—even down his throat—looked bitten and raw, like ground meat. It was pale and the knotted scars shone red and purple and blue, a tangled mess. His lips looked torn, mutilated. I wasn't even sure if they _were_ lips.

I had seen women suffering from acid burns before. When Kitty had been in her senior year, she'd tackled every global issue with a personal, passionate fervor. One of them had involved young women in the third world who were mutilated by rival women or men with vendettas. Acid was flung on them in passing. It warped the skin, twisting it into a labyrinthine network.

This man—Deadpool—looked as though he'd dipped his entire head and neck in a vat of the stuff.

"_Sugar!!!"_ he rejoined, dragging me back from my thoughts. The word was an exultation. I realized—without any surprise—that it was more the sugar he was craving than the drink itself. It wouldn't surprise me if I found out this man existed entirely on a diet of twinkies and cupcakes.

Sugar aside, my eyes were on the scars, roving them. I wondered how his skin would feel under my fingers. I wondered how it felt _for_ him. Once, years back, I had dropped a kitchen glass. One of the pieces of glass had wedged itself in the webbing between my fingers. I had to tape my fingers together for a week so that I wouldn't tear the cut open. When it finally healed, breaking up the scar tissue had nearly sent me into tears—and I am not one who cries easily.

I couldn't imagine what it was like for him. Every word that he spoke, every expression, must bring him unimaginable pain.

My hand came up to reach for him; I dragged it away at the last minute. "How'd you get those scars?" I asked without thinking.

"Well, Fox fucks everything up," he said jovially, taking a drag of his Mountain Dew—but his eyes were on my hand. The one that had reached for him instinctively, achingly. The look in his eyes was wary. I had seen that look in Logan's eyes, and Robert Roman's. In Scott's eyes, before he died. It was the look of a trapped feral animal: uncertain, ready to bite. "You think that's hot—you should see the rest of me, screamer."

I eyed him blankly, however, and didn't let myself be intimidated by his caged-dog expression. _Fox? _Not only did I not have any clue what he was talking about, but he sounded so—_indifferent_ to it, amused almost, despite the distrust in his hard eyes. His levity was beyond me.

His grin was a rictus. My fingers were twitching. I wanted to reach out and run my fingers over those blistered-looking lips, torn and hard. I wanted to soothe them with a cool, kind touch. "Your mouth?" I asked after a moment. My hands shook, and I clenched them behind my back. His eyes darted from my now-hidden hands to my face.

He shrugged, licking the tattered remains of his lips. "Someone sewed it shut. I had to cut it open." He said it matter-of-factly, like it was no big deal, but I could tell from the scars that he hadn't just cut through thread.

He'd had to cut through the healed-over flesh.

"Does it hurt?" I asked. I was surprised when my voice caught. It sounded like a half-sob.

He stopped, tilting his head, and seemed to take me in for a long, slow minute. He was studying me, the hard-eyed wariness faltering. I ducked my face away from his scrutiny as the reckless, painful-looking smirk faded from his face.

"All the time, Rourke," he said after a moment, his voice quiet.

For a second, I wondered if I was wrong. Perhaps Deadpool was _simply_ loud and brash and obnoxious.

But perhaps he was lost too.

He guzzled down the rest of the sugared beverage and yanked down his mask, letting it snap loudly against his neck. "Now, where were we, Captain Cassidy?"

I wasn't going to be turned aside. Curiosity was another manifestation of my thirst for adventure, for the uncertain. "I thought mutants with healing factors didn't scar," I said, remembering the smoothness of Logan's face, even after it had been ripped in two.

"I'm a unique and special snowflake," he deadpanned, his mask stretching over his self-satisfied grin. "My charming personality is natural. The superpowers? Healing, teleportation, fancy laser-vision? Easily-portable swords? Not so much." A pause. A shrug. "Surgery was done before the healing factor was added. The scars are pre-regenerative."

I cringed, suddenly realizing that this wasn't a burn from fire or acid, nor was it an accident. Someone had intentionally carved into his face and throat—for some ungodly reason.

Someone who could have, apparently, given him a healing factor…and chose not to. Not till after.

"Hey, no big deal, princess," Deadpool said quickly. I looked up at him sharply and realized my horror must have shown in my face. "If I'd had the re-gen factor first, they couldn't have knocked me out for the procedures."

_But it wouldn't hurt so much now,_ I thought, and bit my lip.

"Speaking of lucky bastards with flawless complexions," he added smoothly, "if Jimmy's not here, where is he?"

"I told you: we don't know. Not really. He's looking for Sabertooth."

Deadpool chuckled. "What's the purpose behind that little romp down memory lane, anyway?"

"We have this truce with him," I conceded slowly, grudgingly. "We're not supposed to get in his way, and he's not supposed to get in ours."

The man let out a bark of laughter, then leaned against a tree and crossed his arms over his chest. "Let me guess, Captain Cass—ol' Vic broke his promise?"

I hesitated. "We're not entirely sure," I admitted. "We had a former student go off—Donan MacGunn—and we know he had a grudge against Saber—uh, _Vic_."

Deadpool whistled low. The sound was muffled under his mask. "Some idiot kid went after Victor Creed?"

I licked my lips nervously. "Maybe," I allowed. "We're not sure. All we know is Gunner got hit by a car and died."

One brow lowered and he eyed me in a way that was somewhere between doubt and derision. "An X-man got hit by a car and you think it was _Creed?_ Not really his style, doll."

"Well—" I hesitated. "The car was airborne when it hit him, and there was no-one inside it."

An incredulous pause, and then the man doubled over at the waist, gasping for breath between strangled, half-hushed gales of laughter. "Jesus _Christ,"_ Deadpool chuckled when he finally caught his breath. "I'd've paid to see that. Sometimes I miss old fang-face."

_Fang-face._ Did the man have no sense of self-preservation?

"You want me to leave, Rourke? I'll go. But you better believe I'll be back sooner or later. Gotta make me a parka."

I snorted in spite of myself. He _was_ intelligent, despite his seeming death wish. Another might not have caught the connection, but I did: the best parkas used Wolverine fur on the lining of the hood, because of how easily the snow brushed off.

"You'll leave?" I asked suspiciously. "Just because I asked?"

He shrugged. "It's boring as hell around here, and I have all the time in the world. There's no real rush to get my venge on."

"Get your venge on?" I repeated blankly. And then: "Why do you have it in for Logan anyway? He's a good man."

"He's a regular prince, Captain Cass." A sneer. "Like the Beast, _before_ Beauty kisses him."

I tilted my chin defiantly. "Looks aren't everything," I said priggishly, knowing it was a nasty barb. I was always like a tigress protecting those I cared about, though, and while I hated to be cruel, the instinct to speak for Logan was stronger.

His eyes narrowed, though, and he straightened, then took a threatening step forward. "You got a mouth on you, screamer."

"Damn straight," I shot back, but my voice quavered in the dim shadows. It took all of my strength to not step away. He loomed over me, broad and powerful, one gloved hand coming to an easy rest on the holstered gun at his hip. "That's why we get along so well."

He leaned over me and I took a step back in spite of myself, backing right into the trunk of a tree. One of his muscular forearms locked me in on the side; he tilted himself inward with the opposite shoulder to keep me caged. I could feel the heat radiating off his body. The man must have inherited a furnace-like metabolism to go with all his apparent powers as well. My heart thudded painfully in my chest and for a second, drawing in breath was painful. I would have to slide my body against his to get away, and the thought was thrilling—and horrifying in that thrill.

His glove hand came up and I cringed back, expecting a ringing backhand at best.

Then the cool leather of his glove cupped my cheek, gently, and he stroked his thumb over my jawline. "You mean that, princess?" he asked after a minute. There was something wistful in his voice. I lifted my head then, carefully and slowly, and looked up at him in confusion. It took a minute for me to figure out what he was referring to.

_Looks aren't everything._

He backed up suddenly, his hand raised in mock-surrender. "You want me to go, I'll go, Rourke. Scout's honor. But I'll be back. It'll be worth waiting for…Jimmy."

**dpdpdpdpdpdpdpdpdpdpdpdpdpdpdpdpdpdpdp**

It wasn't a moment too soon. Three days later—three sleepless nights, for me—they came back.

Logan and Sabertooth—_Vic,_ as Deadpool had so familiarly called him, or _fang-face_—were already in the mansion when I came down one day, talking with Professor Monroe. Well, Logan was talking. Sabertooth looked bored out of his brain.

I tilted my head, eying his hulking frame, trying to imagine his relationship—whatever it was—with Deadpool. The scarred man out in the woods had certainly not harbored any friendly feelings toward him. I knew the huge feral was as vicious as they come, and the only things that pleased him were blood and violence and cruelty and murder, dealing death with his enormous clawed hands.

Well, those things, and the rumors of the pretty blond woman he had tucked away somewhere. October Morgan, whom I'd had the pleasure of meeting on occasion.

Still, trying to picture Sabertooth and Deadpool, I imagined that the bigger mutant must have hated my—well, my friend, of sorts. Deadpool was a smart-alec, and arrogant and cocky, and he liked the sound of his own voice.

Sabertooth, for all intents and purposes, was much the same.

I imagined a rivalry and a mutual hatred growing between the two of them because of that. Deadpool's irreverence, too, would grate on Sabertooth's nerves. For the feral, death was an expression of power. For Deadpool—nothing was sacred.

Nothing.

The thought was sad, in a way—

"You want something, frail?"

I looked up, startled, into Sabertooth's eyes. His grin curled back predatorily and he bared his teeth, mocking me. "I—I'm sorry," I stammered, backing up a step. His nostrils flared suddenly and he narrowed his eyes, taking a step forward. "I just—"

"Stop scaring the kid, Creed," Logan growled, coming around his brother's side even as Professor Monroe rose from her seat behind the desk. "She's just—"

"D'you smell it, Jimmy?" There was a strange echo of anticipation in Sabertooth's voice. "Fer fuck's sake, it's all over her—"

_Jimmy,_ I recognized, and wondered why I hadn't before.

Logan paused, his own nostrils twitching. He tilted his head at me, his eyes growing wary. "Terry…you smell—familiar."

I edged back toward the door. "I should, Logan. You _do_ know me."

"Hush yer mouth, darlin'—you know what I mean." His nostrils flared again. "You meet a new guy?"

Sabertooth barked a laugh. "More like an old one."

I hesitated. I didn't want to betray Logan. But I thought again of Deadpool, a silent figure in the trees.

_Go on then. I'll keep watch tonight._

I couldn't betray him either.

"Sort of," I said at last, hedging.

Logan tilted his head. "Anyone I know, darlin'?"

I chewed on my lip.

"Oh, fer Chrissake," Sabertooth growled. He wasn't laughing anymore; rather, he was staring me down like a fawn in the sights of a lion. His patience with my game was clearly at an end, and it reminded me sharply of Deadpool's surprising patience. "It's fuckin' _Wade."_

Logan blinked, as did I. _Wade?_

"Wilson?" Logan asked incredulously. "No way, bub, you're wrong—" but he paused, sniffing the air again, and his eyes turned flinty. "Terry?"

"I don't know a Wade," I said firmly, backing up. "Or a Wilson."

Logan stepped forward. I had forgotten how menacing he could be, even with his short stature. "Who'd you _meet,_ Terry?"

I chewed on my lip. "I don't know his real name," I faltered, trying frantically to think of an escape.

Logan let out a grunt of frustration and Sabertooth stepped in, his eyes narrow and fierce. He bared his teeth and I knew he was wondering why Logan didn't just rip my head off by the ears. "Ugly looking shithead," he said bluntly. "'Bout this tall. Used to be a pretty boy, got all scarred up from surgery—brought the fucker _low_." There was a particular glee in Sabertooth's voice, and I thought I glimpsed some of the rivalry I had imagined before. "Nasty fuckin' swords come out of his hands. Also goes by the name _Weapon XI._"

"We cut his damn head off, Creed," Logan growled. The words weren't a denial, but a reminder, as though to say: _how?_

"And you got shot through the fucking skull, _Jimmy,_" Creed snapped back. "Obviously, you can cross one more thing off your list of possible suicide methods, you pussy _bitch."_

"Creed, I'm warning you—"

"Go fuck yourself, Jimmy. I played your game. Your little amateur _X-man_"—he said the word like an insult—"came after me and mine, and he got what was coming to him. Now I fuckin' followed you out here to 'clear things up,' and I'm _done._ I'll spend the night and head out tomorrow. You get shit worked out with your girl here—" and he nodded disdainfully in my direction. "Otherwise you got bigger problems than a little _car accident."_ He pushed past, nearly knocking me over, muttering that all adolescents should be spattered on windshields like bugs.

I hesitated, then looked back. Professor Monroe stood, still silent, even as Logan paced the office. Somehow, the weather witch's silence could undo anyone.

"He's right," I said after a minute. "Sabert—uh, Mr Creed." I hesitated. "The man he described? That was…who I met." I hated myself for saying it, but I was torn. Logan was dear to me, a distant but well-loved older cousin of sorts, and I couldn't forget that Deadpool had planned to kill him. "I don't know about him being called Wade, or Wilson, or Weapon XI, but…the rest. That was all right." My heart clenched in my chest.

Logan's eyes zeroed in on me. "What did he call himself then, darlin'?"

I closed my eyes. "He was—very nice, Logan. I mean, he was an arrogant ass, but he was…kind. I talked to him a few times, and he never once hurt me, not even on accident." Even when he'd first caught me, he'd only closed a hand over my mouth and nose. Had he chosen to kill me in that moment, he never would have left a mark. "And he was witty, and clever. And he made me feel…" I hesitated, and then looked straight in Logan's eyes, remembering the few weeks of solid slumber I'd gotten—the best sleep in years, while he was watching out. _"Safe,"_ I said at last, injecting more feeling into that word than I had thought possible.

Logan tilted his head. "He used to be a charmer," he allowed after a moment. "A real ladies' man. But he's not what I would call _safe,_ darlin'. He's killed as many people as I have, in about half the time."

My jaw jutted stubbornly. "He didn't kill _me,_ Logan."

"What I don't understand," Professor Monroe broke in suddenly, "is why I haven't heard about this mysterious visitor before."

I flushed, then paled. Would she expel me? I shot an anxious glance at Logan, but he only quirked an eyebrow. It was clearly an expression that said, _You dug this hole. Now get yerself outta it._

"I'm sorry, Professor Monroe," I said quietly. "I should have said something to you. I thought about it, plenty of times. But he really was—he wasn't doing anything _wrong._ He just wanted to find—" I hesitated. "He just wanted to find Logan."

The compact man stiffened, his face tightening, but said nothing.

"I promise," I said quickly. "If I see him again, I'll tell you right away, as soon as I can. I promise."

"I'll have to think about this, Terry," the white-haired woman said quietly, her voice rippling with disappointment. "Go on—get back to class."

I turned, heading out, when I felt Logan's heavy, warm hand on my elbow.

"Wait, Terry. You never answered me," Logan said abruptly, walking with me as we headed through the doors. "What'd he call himself?"

I chewed my lip nervously, feeling like a traitor either way. Caught between a rock and a hard place. "Deadpool."

Logan sucked in a breath. I cast a sharp, upward glance at him, and his voice was low when he finally spoke. Sometimes, since getting his memories back, unexpected things would trigger a flood of images in his mind. I didn't know much about the process, but from what I understood, the memories were never truly _gone._ But the admantium bullet he'd taken to the brain—if the whispers on campus were to be believed—had rattled and collapsed his gray matter, and when his brain had regenerated, most of the neural pathways that led to those memories were gone. When he'd left after Professor Grey died, he'd begun working with a telepath—one he still often visited—to rebuild those pathways. As a result, we could never be sure what phrase or image would snap him back into his past. This term—_Deadpool—_had apparently done just that.

"We used to place bets," he said quietly, flatly. "In the unit—in Team X. We'd bet on how we would die, or when. Two different gambling pools, adding in new wagers before and after every mission. Stryker and Zero thought it was tacky and repulsive, but it was one of the only ways for us to deal. With the insanity of it all, I mean. Wilson used to bet that the only way to kill Vic was a wooden stake through the heart, and a jaw trap for me. _I _used to bet on the chance that Wilson was gonna die by Vic's hands. It was—fun, in a morbid way. It was a laugh, and it was a way to make light of the horror of it all. I mean, for people like Wilson and Wraith and Bradley, it was only a matter of time before something took them out, and every day was a death-promise. For people like me and Vic—even Dukes, sometimes—it was a way to tempt fate. I remember in Zimbabwe, once, we were sitting around a fire at midnight and everyone was smoking. Tobacco so thick you couldn't see the stars. Bradley had just finished writing down the bets and had put them in a little locked cashbox he kept in his tent, along with the money and the other little trinkets we wagered. We were laughing, joking, dickin' around, and Wilson said suddenly, _Sometimes I think we do this 'cause we all want to die._ And no-one said anything. No-one could deny it."

I had heard of such things, read about them in books. They were called ghoul pools, usually. Or death watches. But judging from Logan's expression, and his reaction to his once-camrade's current alias, I knew what Team X must have called their bets.

"The Deadpool," I said quietly.

Logan nodded.

**dpdpdpdpdpdpdpdpdpdpdpdpdpdpdpdpdpdpdp**

_Wade Wilson._

I expected him to come back in a few months, eager to find Logan again. He didn't, though—_short attention span,_ Logan had grunted when I mentioned it once. Still, I turned the mystery of him over and over again in my head, trying to figure out why I couldn't forget him, or get him out of my mind. He was nothing like my ideal lover, and yet I couldn't stop thinking of the way he'd held me pinned against his chest, against the tree. The scars on his tattered mouth. His sardonic wit, tinged with a little giddiness that almost seemed to push him over the edge.

Instead of him returning, however, October Morgan—a friend and personal hero to Bobby Roman, the other phonophilic mutant on campus—visited after Roman nearly took out sweet Piotr in a training session in the Danger Room. Not a day later, Sabertooth was back—which wasn't surprising, really. Sometimes he would show up to the school on his own, usually to exchange nasty words with Logan, but if _ever_ Toby Morgan was present, you could bet that Sabertooth was not far behind.

I liked Toby well enough. Others might have raved about her kindness, her gentleness, her personal crusade for mutant rights. As for me, I valued her bluntness, her sharp wit. Perhaps it was my Irish heritage or my redheaded temper, but those were always the traits I admired most in anyone, and tried to cultivate in myself. In most situations, I might have tried to approach her, to ask her what she thought of my predicament. However, with what I had learned from Logan, I thought it would be best to stay far away from Sabertooth.

According to Logan, Wade Wilson had once been a normal man—relatively normal, at any rate. He'd been the most exasperating man in the unit, one who insisted on calling Logan and Sabertooth by shortened forms of their first names—even other, less-respectful terms—when every other man in the unit deferred to their preference and referred to the two of them only as Creed and Howlett. His irreverence did not stop there: he liked to hear himself talk, Logan said. He was hungry for attention. In cities where they stopped, even in remote villages, he could pick up a girl—or two—to warm his bed every night. It had driven Sabertooth crazy, apparently: the ease with which Wade had attracted women, his cocky attitude, his mouthiness.

_I'm a crude, lewd bastard._

Then Logan had left. He didn't really know what had happened between then and the time he'd next seen Wade, but he tried to describe what it was he saw when he finally fought the man again. Wilson's bare torso had been a rode map for surgery—apparently, they'd been hoping to do the admantium-bonding process on Wade, as well, though it had never gotten around to happening. His pre-regenerative scarring had been horrible—the skin around his eyes had been burnt and blackened as though they'd peeled back these parts his face to add in the laser-vision, which—though controllable—seemed to not always have been so, since his flesh was so bubbly and raw-looking. His mouth had been sewn shut and allowed to heal over, and his head had been shaved, his scalp scarred as well, as though they'd peeled that back too—probably, Logan guessed, to insert something into his brain. After all, when they'd fought against each other, Wade had seemed more like an automaton than the snarky, sarcastic swordsman he'd once been.

And then, in a fit of camaraderie, Sabertooth and Logan had taken out Deadpool together, cleaving his head from his shoulders.

Logan didn't know how he'd come back.

He guessed the healing factor had helped, but he didn't know how. If Wade had regenerated completely, or just—somehow—reattached his own head. Or if maybe someone else had done it for him. All he figured, after listening to my description of Deadpool, was that whatever contraption they'd put in his brain to keep him on a leash had somehow snapped, and that he'd gone maybe a little crazy along with it. From the pain, from the sudden freedom. He was as snarky as ever, but seemed—less in-control of himself, Logan said.

My description of his clothing had made Logan go gray. When I described his mask—the black shapes around the eyes, the slick mouthlessness of it, the band around his neck and the smoothness of his scalp—Logan had looked vaguely repulsed. "That's how his face looked," he'd said raggedly. "Right before we cut his damn head off."

I couldn't, then, stomach the idea of Sabertooth overhearing more of my rendez-vous with his former—colleague. The man had already killed Wade Wilson once. I imagined nothing would stop him from taking him out a second time.

Instead, I waited patiently. My sleep suffered, or—I should say—returned to its normal pattern. I stayed up late, worried: for me, for Logan, for Deadpool, for Jamie Madrox who was still making a few half-hearted attempts to be mine.

I graduated and began taking college-level courses at the Institute, waiting for the day when they might invite me to be an X-man. When they might see beyond my "passive power" as a phonophilic mutant and, like Roman—who was now dating Marie D'Ancanto and had his own codename, _Pitch_—view me as a warrior in my own right.

Every night, berating myself for foolishness, I looked out my window and hoped to catch a glimpse of an indolently lounging male figure, one hand raised in a mock salute.

It seemed to take forever.

Then, one night, outside my window:

"_Psst. Screamer."_

I jolted, then flew to my window, nearly tipping out head first as I leaned over it quickly.

He was right there, a few stories below, pressed against the side of the mansion.

"Deadpool?"

"You still there, Captain Cassidy? Shouldn't you have moved up in ranks or moved out by now?"

"Shut up and stay there," I snapped, grabbing a sweatshirt and readying to sneak out the front door.

"Wait!"

I leaned back out, concerned. There had been a kind of desperation in his voice.

"Don't—" He wrestled with his words. "Don't leave. I wanna see you."

"I'm just going out the front door," I said, exasperated. "I'll be down in a second—"

"Jump."

I stared down at him. "Are you crazy?"

He raised a brow as though to say, _What a stupid question. _ "Well, _yeah,"_ he said sharply. "You didn't pick up on that?"

"I am _not _jumping down there."

"C'mon, Rourke," he wheedled, but there was something deeper in his voice, something more than simple whining. "I promise to catch you."

I hesitated, scrunching my face up in dismay even as I felt myself giving in. With a furious sigh, I felt in the sweatshirt pocket for my keys, then closed my eyes and thrust my leg out the window, angling my body so I could sit on the ledge and launch myself down. He blinked, and I realized he hadn't expected me to yield, but then he squared off his legs and held his arms open, expectant.

My nightgown was short and silky under the sweatshirt, and I could tell he was eyeing my legs speculatively. "Stop being a pervy old man," I snapped, swinging the other leg out the window and hesitating.

He smirked a little, but his voice was quiet and soothing when he said, "Come on, princess. I promise."

Closing my eyes, I let myself go.

He caught me easily, just a little bit of give in his arms so that I felt like I had landed with a gentle bounce. Carefully, he set me down, then grinned recklessly. "Miss me, Rourke?"

Suddenly furious, I took a swing at him. He blinked when my balled-up fist deflected harmlessly off one pectoral.

"You were gone," I hissed. _"Forever."_

He shrugged. "More like a year, dollface."

"More like _two and a half!"_ I accused angrily, my vision blurring. I am one of the unfortunate few whose anger is hardwired to her tear-ducts. Fury made me cry, and it was embarrassing as well as undermining.

He tilted his head. "You wanted me to come back and kill Logan?"

I threw my hands in the air. "I just wanted you to _be here!"_

"Princess, princess, hush yourself," he soothed, and I suddenly realized he was laughing at me. "Deadpool's back to take care of his little doll."

I stamped a foot, impotent in my fury. "God _damn_ you—"

"Language, language."

Baring my teeth, I seized on the only power I had: knowledge. "I know about you. Logan told me. Your name is Wade Wilson—"

"Not anymore, screamer." There was a warning in his voice, now, but I barreled on anyway.

"—and you call yourself _Deadpool_ because when you were in Team X with Logan and Sabertooth and the others, you guys took bets to see when you would die."

"I _did_ die," he said through gritted teeth. "I'm not Wade Wilson anymore. That's an old life, and I can't go back to it."

He was angry, I realized. I remembered Sabertooth, talking about how the surgeries had "brought him low." Bringing up his history had been a bad plan, but I couldn't stop now. I didn't know how. Instead, I plowed onward. "If it's an old life, why are you so obsessed with Logan?" I snapped. "He's going to know you're here any minute now. I promised Professor Monroe I would tell her if you came back. I had to defend you—"

He blinked. "No, you didn't." There was something shocked in his voice, something a little achy.

"Shut up!" I spat. "I did _too._ They thought—they thought—" I stumbled over my words, winded. "Logan was ready to come after you. They thought you were a danger to the kids here, to everyone. I had to tell them you weren't, that you were a _good man."_

He blinked, stared. In one corner of my mind—the corner that wasn't angry—I registered that it was probably something he hadn't heard in a while. Maybe ever.

"I'm not—"

Furious with the interruption, the denial, I hissed, "You didn't answer my question. Why Logan?"

He took a step back, crossing his arms sulkily. "Here I expect a nice welcome—"

"_Answer me!"_ I snapped, furious at his evasions.

He paused, eying me measuringly. When he spoke, his voice was cold. "Not many people get away with talking to me like that, princess. You'd best watch yourself."

I eyed him warily, but didn't back down. I knew my eyes were flashing, my lips pursed.

He laughed suddenly. "You look unbelievably kissable when you do that," he teased, and then—as though it didn't matter—he said, "Jimmy took my vengeance from me."

I stared. "What?"

"Sounds dramatic, doesn't it?" He grinned. "I like dramatics."

I scowled, put my fists on my hips. "You're not distracting me that easily."

"No?" A chuckle. "I wasn't meant to become this human _guinea pig,_ Rourke. People don't sign up for shit like this." He gestured to himself. "Stryker conned me into it, fucked me over. Didn't tell me what I was actually signing up for." He wagged a finger in my face. _"Always _read the fine print, Captain Cass."

My anger had melted away. I was actually physically leaning forward, hanging onto his words. "What happened?"

"Stryker watched while Doc Killebrew performed all sorts of wacky experiments on me. And now—this." A vague gesture at himself. "Anyway, the _plan_—which, granted, I don't really stick to very closely—was supposed to be to find Stryker, torture the hell out of him, and kill him. But—well, Jimmy-boy got to him first."

I stared at Deadpool. "You wouldn't do that."

His eyes narrowed. "Wouldn't I?"

I chewed at my lip. "No," I said quietly, firmly.

"He destroyed my _life,_" the assassin spat. The humor was gone from his voice. "Not only mine, but all of ours, really. He took Jimmy's memories, I heard. He sent Vic out to kill our friends—not that Vic ever had friends. Fuck, he programmed _me _to kill 'em too. '_Fix 'em up,'"_ he said in a high falsetto, obviously mocking Stryker. "'_Send 'em out…they're just government property, anyway!'"_ He sneered. "Are you going to defend somebody whose respect for human life is so severely impaired?"

I stared back at him, eying him evenly. "I've stood up for you, haven't I?"

His head tilted, and his brow didn't recede. He still looked angry, pissed, but there was a momentary flicker in his eyes.

"_A good man,"_ he quoted at last, his voice light, but not malicious. It was as though he was trying not to make too much of it.

I eased back, then glanced around. "He's going to be out here any minute."

He grinned, bouncing from one foot to the other. "Yay." His voice was giddy, childish.

I glowered. "He's going to find you out here and kill you—_again_—or he's going to smell you on me in the morning and kill _me."_

Deadpool tilted his head. "Jimmy doesn't kill his girls," he said after a minute.

I flushed. "I'm _not_ his girl," I said firmly. "I'm not _anyone's—"_

"As for the whole smelling thing, we can give him something to _really_ be pissy about," he added, grinning mischievously. At my blank look, he added, "I like those lace panties you're wearing. Whaddaya say we get 'em nice and wet?"

I gasped and looked down, wondering if my nightgown had ridden up or if it was showing through in the dark. No, there was nothing. My head snapped up like it was on a spring, and I glared, heat rising in my cheeks. I cursed being so fair-skinned, knowing he could see my blush even in the dark.

"You were watching me," I accused, shaking a little. The muscles in my abdomen had tightened at the thought, but I shoved the knowledge aside.

"Yeahhhh," he drawled. "I like it when you change clothes."

"Oh, please," I shot back, disgusted.

"What? You're a hot cookie. Kind I'd like to eat." I could tell he was leering, even through the mask. "You're a regular siren, Rourke."

His words—especially the last, sly compliment—sent a wave of pleasure through me, but I pushed it away. "You're what—seventy years old?"

"But I have the stamina of a man one-third of my age."

"You're—revolting, you letch."

"You don't like a man with scars?"

"That's not what I mean and you know it. You're just—a goddamn _bastard."_

"Well, _yeah."_

I stomped, infuriated, embarassed. I wished I could hold my own with this man. He paused, his eyes flickering over me, lingering on my long bare legs.

"You might still be a kid in some ways, Rourke—"

"I'm almost twenty-one, Deadpool," I snapped.

"—but we could be good together." The words were a little more earnest than he'd intended, I think—almost wistful. They sent a lightning-bolt of heat into the pit of my stomach and all my muscles clenched, but I only tried to scowl. I think the expression must have looked exactly like what it was: a desperate defense.

"I like quiet men," I protested, my color heightening. "Men who are sweet and lost." _Like Piotr,_ I thought, but the truth was I hadn't thought of him that way for a while now.

Deadpool grinned a little. "I'm not quiet. I'll never be quiet." And then, solemnly, leaning into me, "I can be sweet, though. I _can."_ A strange, needy kind of pause. "And I'm the most lost man you'll ever find, Rourke Cassidy."

It was alarming, and dangerous, how conversations with this man went. He was all rough and sarcastic at first glance, frivolous in his way, but that levity was only a tool. He could see what was beneath the surface, dig it out with his sly quips and snide comments. Wade Wilson—Deadpool—saw straight through to the heart of things. He was, perhaps, the most _aware_ person I'd ever met.

He could turn me inside out, I realized slowly.

Ducking my head, trying to hide the revelation in the hope that he hadn't already figured it out himself, I turned away.

"You should go," I said abruptly. "Before Logan—"

"But I _want _him to find me," he said, his voice an almost-whine. "I wanna see how it _ends."_

"Stop it," I snapped, my heart clenching at the thought. "Look at the healing factor you both have. The might _won't_ end. It'll go on forever." I took in a breath. Besides, after my talk with Logan, I didn't think he'd even _want _to fight Deadpool. Really, he just wanted him to go away. "He's not gonna trade blows with you."

"You're right," he said solemnly. "I shoulda figured by now. The only way to get Jimmy to do what you want is to go after one of his girls."

I flushed again. "I am _not—"_

"That's how Stryker egged him on," he mused. "Got Vic to stage that Silverrat girl's death." A pause. His eyes flicked over me appraisingly.

I found myself planting my hands on my hips once more. "'Pool—"

"'_Pool?"_ he repeated, sounding delighted. "I like that, princess—"

"Here," I heard, and whirled around as Kitty turned the corner with Logan in tow. I cringed back from the expression on Logan's face. It was thunderous, and I knew I'd disappointed him. Not only because I'd promised to tell if I saw Deadpool on the grounds again, but because I knew Logan thought I'd put myself in a dangerous situation.

"I'm sorry, Terry," Kitty said after a minute. To my surprise, she really did look apologetic. "I was worried about you—"

"_Terry?"_ Deadpool exploded, laughing. "You're talking to Captain Rourke Cassidy here, adventuress extraordinaire. _Terry. _What the fuck is she, a librarian?"

I flinched, and at the same time, a wave of warmth went through me. Only Deadpool could—and would—make me sound less than boring.

Besides, as much as I loved Kitty, the older girl had an annoying habit pretending like she was a mother.

"Shut up, Wilson, and get off these grounds," Logan growled. His voice was threatening, and I swear the ground rumbled under my feet. He was furious.

"Don't I know you anyway, little lady?" Deadpool asked, ignoring Logan, his eyes snagging on Kitty again.

She tossed her hair disdainfully. "Not likely, you prick."

I sucked in a breath, furious. "Kitty—"

"Yeah, no, I recognize you." Even through the mask, I could see his face light up. _"Deadpool #27. _ I Shoryuken dragon-punched your goddamn lights out." A fanatical grin.

"What?" she snapped, and I shared her exasperation in spite of myself. Sometimes, he spoke nonsense.

He just grinned. "Let's see if it works again." And suddenly she was yanked out of my grasp by her hair, a clean uppercut sending her flying.

"Kitty!" Logan barked, horrified, and sent me a look that clearly blamed me for her pain even as he stalked toward Deadpool, who was trilling:

"_Yay!_ Now is fighty-time, fighty-time—bloodblood_blood!"_ The mocking song sounded like it was being quoted from something. He broke off suddenly and glanced sharply at me, knowingly, and added, "See? Just go after one of his girls—"

I dropped next to Kitty, cradling her head carefully and examining her swelling jaw even as Logan's claws slid from their sheaths and he launched himself at Deadpool. Kitty moaned, blood painting her lips, and my stomach doubled up on itself. She was an experienced fighter, a graduate from the Institute and a brilliant member of the X-men, and it was my fault she'd been lain out cold by a ruthless—and perhaps slightly crazy—masked assassin. What's more, she was Piotr's girlfriend, and the thought made me feel even more guilty.

"Nice jewelry," Deadpool was gloating, eying the shining blades that Logan was currently baring. "You were always such a _girl,_ Jimmy—"

"C'mon, Kitty," I whispered, trying to help her rise to her feet. She was shaking, nearly seeing stars, I was sure. She leaned on me heavily, and I was only too glad to support her—I was furious with myself, nearly as shaken as she was.

Behind me, there was a sudden clash of metal, and I glanced back to see sparks flying from where Logan's claws skidded against the gleaming blade of Deadpool's katanas.

Squeezing my eyes shut tight, holding back tears of frustration and hurt and anger, I helped haul Kitty back into the house. The dull thud of flesh on flesh, the shriek of metal on metal, followed me inside.

When morning came, I didn't wait for Logan to find me. I had stayed by Kitty's side all evening, making sure nothing was broken, making sure she was comfortable and that she didn't have a concussion. She hadn't wanted to wake Piotr, who would have been eager to take care of her—and to be honest, it felt like a kind of penance for my own involvement in the situation. still, I wasn't looking forward to Logan's inevitable fury, and I remembered the lesson he himself had taught me: that the best defense is a good offense.

So I went on the offensive.

I stepped firmly up to him in the kitchen, a woman with a mission, in spite of the other kids around. "What happened last night?" I asked squarely, staring into his eyes.

He paused and stared at me over the top of his bottle of beer—ridiculous, really; it was still breakfast-time—and then set it down slowly. "You got a lot to answer for, kid," he said quietly.

I held my ground and raised one eyebrow. "What. Happened?"

He tilted his head, eying me coolly. "I didn't kill 'im, if that's what you're worried about."

A little of my strength abated in the wake of relief, and it took an effort to drag my shoulders back up and face him squarely. "And?"

He shrugged, turned back to the counter. "And we worked stuff out."

I blinked. "You mean—you talked?"

He snorted. "Wilson might chat up a brick wall, but not me, darlin'. We hashed it out with our fists."

I closed my eyes. Tried again. "And?"

"And what?"

A good question. Even I didn't know what I was looking for. I just wanted to know how things had turned out, if Deadpool was okay, if he was still around, if he was coming back. Instead, I let the silence spread out, waited for Logan to fill the void. He stared back at me evenly, but I could tell he was uncomfortable under the quiet, watchful eyes of the other students.

At last, he said grudgingly, "He won't be back." The words were firm, self-satisfied, and I wanted suddenly—passionately—to slap him across the mouth. It would have been a pointless gesture—he would have caught my hand long before I made contact. Instead, I took a step back, closing my eyes for a moment.

There was a weighty pause. Then, "Terry?"

I opened my eyes. Logan looked—concerned. Just a little. He cut his eyes sideways to the other students at the table, and they scattered like birds, suddenly plucking up their plates and making excuses and leaving the room.

"You wanna tell me what's going on here, kid?"

I winced, bit my lip. I didn't even realize what I was saying till the words tumbled out. "I haven't seen him in almost three years, and now he's gone again, already." I slammed my mouth shut, shocked at myself, and glanced nervously up at Logan. He was tilting his head at me in that animal-inquisitive way of his.

"Darlin'—you know he's not a good man."

I glared then. "He is," I snapped. "I know he can be. I've seen it in him."

"You're young," Logan said soothingly. "And he was nice to you. I get that—"

"Don't _patronize _me!" I said. I'd meant it to sound sharp, angry, but the words only came out broken. Still, Logan looked startled, leaning back and reassessing me quietly.

"I know," I whispered after a moment. "I know he's done—_rotten_ things. And I know he's a—" I paused, laughed shakily. "He's a _horrid bastard,_ really, but—" I closed my eyes, pressed my lips together. "But I've seen these things in him, Logan. And I know he's capable of—so much more."

Logan paused, but he didn't reject my words outright this time. "Maybe so, Terry," he said after a moment or two of thoughtful quiet. "Maybe so, but he ain't comin' back."

I sat down heavily at the table, burying my face in my hands. I wasn't crying, but I felt miserable, everything in me fragile and twig-like and waiting to be broken.

A thoughtful inhalation from Logan, and then, quietly: "You can do better than 'im, kid."

I flushed, my head whipping up. "I am _not _in love with him, Logan," I said sharply. "I'm _not."_

He looked at me, faintly amused, a trace of sadness in it as well. _"I _didn't say that you were, darlin'."

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**A/N: This fic is definitely meant to be served as a double-shot, so just be patient for part ii. Hopefully it will all make sense then!**

**I know the first bit of this is a bit jumpy and boring but for the life of me I couldn't figure out how to improve it. More to come shortly, with an elaborate explanation of anything that may have confused you about the storyline (at least, I think I cover all the bases!). For now, enjoy, mes petits chous!  
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	2. Chapter 2

**Title: The Mouth (An Aside)**

**Rating: M for language, smut, and possible squick factor. **

**Summary: Deadpool double-shot. Siryn, a student at the X-mansion, spots a mysterious masked man outside on the grounds at night. A movie rendition of a comic theme. **

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"Now that you've graduated with a bachelor's degree, Terry," Professor Monroe said quietly, "Logan and I have been talking about offering you the opportunity to train with the X-men. In spite," she added pointedly, "of some of your more unsavory connections in your past, and your continued display of insubordinance." I knew she was referring to Deadpool, to my not telling her—or anyone else—when he'd been here. I bowed my head, but inside I was seething. The last time I had seen him had been a year ago, almost two, and there was no reason to keep pushing it.

I had learned my lesson.

"Of course," Professor Monroe added, "Should you go onward in your studies and choose to pursue a Master's program at another institution, we would gladly support that decision. In the meantime—"

"I want to be an X-man," I said firmly. Even underneath my words, I knew what I was really saying was, _I want to prove myself. _It was foolish, maybe—a pointless fight for recognition where I would never be recognized—but I didn't care. "It's what I've wanted to be for years," I added at Professor Monroe's raised brow. "I even have my codename figured out."

"Oh?" she asked, her other brow joining the first.

_You're a regular siren, Rourke._

I took a deep breath. "Siryn," I said quietly, emphasizing the second syllable. Professor Monroe looked faintly impressed.

She picked up a legal pad, made a note, and smiled at me. "We'll begin training in two weeks, then. Until that time, let me recommend some exercises—" and she handed me a manual from the bookshelf, ne that outlined certain meditations, stretches, and other potential pre-training exercises.

I got up early the next morning, intent on beginning the strict regimen. Professor Monroe was a stickler for control, for focus, for discipline—unlike Logan's more free-form way of handling conflict—and I knew these exercises would help get me where I needed to be to start out on the right foot. Studying them, I eased into a lotus position, facing the gray edge of sky where the sun would rise. I stared at it and concentrated on relaxing each muscle, feeling the tension leave my body. Sinking into the gravity of it.

And then, from my left:

"_Hiiiii."_ It was a half-sheepish drawl.

It jerked me out of my hypnotic state and I nearly tumbled from the lotus, whipping around to stare at the familiar mask I knew so well.

"Wanna doughnut?"

I launched myself at him, wrapping my arms around his shoulders and my legs around his waist. It was a surprise, apparently—somehow I never imagined him truly taken by surprise—and he stumbled back a second before his hands came to rest on my waist, then slid a little lower.

Same old 'Pool. Tempting fate.

"Whoa—hey, princess."

I buried my face into the bend of his shoulder and throat, inhaling the scent: leather, latex, gunpowder.

"You smell like fireworks," I muttered, my hands sliding up to cup either side of his face. He was grinning, I could tell, and I yanked his head downward, ramming the crown of my skull sharply into his forehead.

"Ow! Hey! What the hell was that for?" he asked, dropping me, his hands raised in mock surrender.

"For two years of _wasting my time,"_ I said nastily. "And be nice, 'cause you've got another one coming."

"For what?" he asked, pouting.

I glowered. "Grabbing my ass just now."

A grin under the mask. "Can't blame a guy for trying."

I scowled. "You're sick."

"But it's the best kind of sick, dollface," he shot back with a leer.

"Ugh," I said, flapping my hands at him. "Just—ugh."

"You know you love it," he singsonged, and then, opening his arms to me, "C'mon, Captain Cass, gimme some sugar. I missed your pretty face."

I hesitated. "You punched Kitty in the face. Almost broke her jaw."

He grinned recklessly. "Her fault. She should have blocked it."

I scowled. "Do you always go around pummeling women?"

"If it gets me what I want," he said with a playful grin. I started, and my nausea must have shown in my face because he held up his hands in surrender. "I never lied 'bout what I was, princess. I'm an out-and-out _dick._" He snorted, then shrugged. "'Sides, she's _supposed_ to be an X-man," he pointed out. "I figured she could hold her own. She's a _fighter,_ not some fragile _waif."_ A pause, and he leered a little. "Like you. _You _never would have let me get a sucker-punch in."

I closed my eyes, furious at how easily he could charm me. Finally, I moved in, wrapping my arms around his torso tentatively. He squeezed me against him and I sighed, melting into him.

"Why are you back?" I asked after a moment, though he hadn't released me yet. I wondered if he was going to try to cop another feel.

I felt his muscles tighten against me. "Oh, you know, this and that," he said vaguely. "I got bored, decided to come back and maybe stir up some trouble at the playschool." I knew he was referring to the Institute.

"Logan's not here," I informed him after a second. I could hear his heart, feel it thudding against my cheek on his chest.

He started to say something, then closed his . At last, I pulled away, looking up at him quizzically. "So—what do you want?"

He grinned. "Just to see my favorite pirate captain," he said blandly. "S'that so hard to believe?"

I planted my hands on my hips and gazed up at him disbelievingly. He chuckled.

"S'true, Rourke. I got curious. Tell me what's going on. You must be—what, thirteen by now?"

I glowered and tossed back my thick red hair. "Try twenty-two, 'Pool. Almost twenty-three."

He grinned. "Getting' up there a bit. Almost a quarter-century. You got a boyfriend yet, Rourke? Better hurry. You're gonna start getting wrinkly and saggy any day now."

I flushed. "Says the man who's about to hit a hundred," I snapped. "Are you taking anything for your erectile dysfunction yet?"

He snorted a laugh—_"Healing factor"_—and settled back on the ground, nearly sprawling on the lawn. I realized the doughnut line hadn't been a joke—he'd actually brought a couple cans of Mountain Dew and a box of doughnuts with him. _All that sugar, _I thought, even as I cast a nervous glance at the mansion.

"Seriously, princess," 'Pool said from his lazy position in the grass. "Tell me what you've been up to."

I chewed my lip. "I'm training to be an X-man," I said after a moment. "That's what I was doing out here, actually—"

"Really? 'Cause it looked like you were about to fall sleep."

I glowered. "It's called _meditation,_" I informed him haughtily. "You might try it sometime."

"You gotta keep quiet while doing it?" he asked, and at my nod, he snorted and shook his head with an expression that clearly said, _You should know better._ "Keep going, screamer. Tell all."

"In about six months to a year, I should be able to go on my first mission."

"That long?" he blinked. His hand came out and briefly touched my cheek, like he was wiping away a smudge of something. The leather was soft and cool, and I felt my flesh shudder slightly at the touch. "I don't think they give you enough credit, Rourke."

I felt myself flush at his words and ducked my head. He always—he always seemed to know what I needed to hear. I saw him peel off his gloves and tried not to stare at the deft, scarred hands as he cracked open a Mountain Dew.

When I looked back up at him, his brow was furrowed thoughtfully. "You gotta be careful, Captain Cassidy. You hear me? There's some nasty fuckers out there that the X-men like to take on, and I don't wanna see—I don't wanna see you wrapped up in that," he finished sullenly. He looked, for a moment, like an angry teenager: sulky, angsty, dramatic.

I stared at him, my eyes taking in furrowed brow, the shape of his mouth, which I could see under his clenched jaw. He was preparing to pull up the mask so he could drink, but I wished I could see more: a tic in his temple, perhaps, or a twitch of his lip when he was upset.

"Take it off," I said quietly.

He stared at me blankly.

"Your mask," I whispered. "Take it off. Please. I want to see."

A dry grin twisted the bare part of his face. "It's a fuckin' _circus,"_ he said crudely. "You sure you want to do this, Captain Cass? There ain't no going back."

I nodded silently. His harshness always came out more when he was nervous. "You want it, you got it, princess." The word was a sneer as he peeled back the rest of the fabric. "You're _really_ gonna be a screamer now."

To be honest, I had prepared myself for worse. In contrast to my imagination, the reality was—alien, but beautiful in its own way. The skin must have been peeled away, because where it wasn't knotted and snarled, it was smooth and shiny: new flesh. His entire head was hairless from scar tissue, and the skin around his eyes was shadowed and dark in a pattern remarkably similar to his mask. The delicate skin there looked singed: bubbly and darkened and veined, just as Logan had described. _Laser vision. _I bit my lip, unable to imagine the process that had led to such a painful ability.

Though it all must have been painful, it was clear that his mouth was the worst, at least visually: a haphazard patchwork of mangled flesh that had been stitched together, healed over, and re-opened. The manufactured regenerative powers had only provided him with a stunted, twisted mistake of lips, rather than the perfect healing that Logan and Sabertooth sported.

Still, there was a kind of beauty there, entwined in the pain. I'd wager the skin was sleek, and the shadowed panels under his cheekbones spoke of a beautiful bone structure that all their evil surgeries couldn't change. I remembered Sabertooth calling him a pretty boy, and Logan saying he'd once been a ladies' man.

_He still could be,_ I thought.

"Can I touch?" I asked after a moment.

He blinked, nonplussed, and scowled. The look transformed his face into something terrifying, and he thrust his head back into the mask. "I don't—no," he said after a moment, his voice fierce. "I don't like taking my mask off, and I sure as hell don't like people touching my face."

I tilted my head. It wasn't that, I realized. It wasn't that he disliked people touching him—it was that he was used to _them_ disliking it.

_Used to be a pretty boy. Brought the fucker _low.

I reached out suddenly, even as the mask snapped closed around his neck, and put my palm on the open hand he had resting on his can of Mountain Dew. The bare skin was silky under mine, withered-looking in some places. Whatever they'd done to insert that katana, they'd mangled him. I imagined it must hurt even now—unlike Logan's extra set of bones, which had been natural enough once upon a time, this was a long, inflexible shaft of metal. It must line nearly his entirely arm. I realized abruptly that if they had indee done all the surgeries before they'd given him the healing factor, his body must have been in agony from far more than just the surgery.

Receivers of organ donations were on antibiotics for life, just in attempt to make sure their bodies didn't reject the alien organs. This man had metal laced into his body, and things inserted into his brain, his eyes. Had his antibodies gone into overdrive, trying to force out the intrusions? Had he been sick, tired, aching all the time?

My hands tightened gently on his.

In spite of his alleged hatred of people touching him, he didn't pull back or flinch or look angry. Instead, he was staring at my hand on his, like he couldn't believe it was there. Pale skin, the copper freckles I'd always hated. Smooth flesh, with just a few tiny white scars from where I'd burned myself. Little things. And underneath: his own hand, huge and calloused, the skin snarled and knotted, rippled like stones wrapped in satin.

He picked up my hand with a delicacy I never would have expected, turning it over, examining the smoothness of my palm, my skinny fingers. I was suddenly very aware of the fact that he could break each one, as he had doubtless done to others in the past.

He would probably crack jokes while he did it.

But the way he held my hand—like it was something precious—and the way he looked at it, his eyes flicking up mine—

"It's just a hand," I muttered, drawing it away and blushing, glancing pointedly and disdainfully at his crotch. "I'm sure you're familiar enough with your own."

He blinked admiringly. "Oh, that was a good one, Rourke."

I flushed brighter. "I learn from the best."

He paused. For a moment, he seemed so much more serious. "We're a pair. You know?" A faint grin, mocking, making light of his own words. "We both got a mouth on us, screamer."

We talked for a while. It didn't surprise me, how much I now realized I missed him. He was smart, and bitter, and funny when he wanted to be. He kept eying me curiously, as though I mystified him. It was—nice, to feel so wanted, so needed. I realized, after a while, that he didn't just find me an amusing diversion, but he was genuinely admiring of me.

The thought made my heart swell. I didn't think anyone had ever admired me before.

He thought me adventuresome, clever. He thought me strong. In a school where I was often pressed aside as unimportant, a second thought, this man thought I was something exciting.

And I wanted—

"What should I tell them?" I asked him at last, when he was rising languidly to his feet. He knew I meant Professor Monroe and the others.

He shrugged. "Whatever you want, princess. Tell 'em I was here—Jimmy won't care. Not anymore." A pause. "I don't think."

I smothered a grin. "Okay."

"And for Chrissakes, be _careful_ with that stupid X-men ninja-shit. I don't wanna have to bail you out of some huge mess you've gotten yourself into."

Something in my chest fluttered. If I had to be saved by anyone, I might not mind if it was Deadpool. "Okay," I agreed again, smiling now.

"I'll be back," he added, and then, with a sly grin—"Probably in about another two years."

I threw the remains of my doughnut at him, and in flicker like an old film-frame, he teleported out of range, disappearing from sight.

I sighed and leaned back in the grass, my hands cushioning my head.

Training went surprisingly well. I was often working with Maria and Jamie, fighting with them or against them, since we were all in the same stages of training. Mara's temper had steadily increased over the years, and it made me leery to work with her. I had no doubt that if she was mad enough, she'd forget that this was a training simulation and turn on someone. In a real fight, I thought I would never be able to trust her: it would take nothing for her to step back and let a partner fall in battle.

Still, it was good practice, and by the time we completed most of it I felt more fit and ready to take on the world than I ever had before.

"Hey—Terry?"

I looked back over my shoulder at Jamie and allowed a small grin. We were still friends, in a distant kind of way, and he was as sweet and kind as ever. "What is it?" I asked, smiling encouragingly, easing over on the bench in the cafeteria so he could sit with me.

"I'm worried," he confessed after a moment. I could tell he was struggling with the words. "Maria—I don't really know what she's up to, but I'm kind of afraid she's going the way of St. Allerdyce."

My thoughts flickered briefly over to John, once a member of the Dream Team. He'd been the stuff of high school legends: strong, handsome, sarcastic and clever. Powerful in a way few firestarters were—while he couldn't technically start the fire, he could _control _it, and that was more than most pyrophilic mutants. Now, however, he was a legend for his defection to the Brotherhood.

I tilted my head. Maria and I did not always get along—not by a long shot—but I couldn't really picture her becoming one of the Brotherhood.

As if reading my thoughts, Jamie tilted his head.

"I don't mean she's joining up with Magneto," he said slowly, quietly, his eyes darting around. "I just mean—she's so angry. I'm afraid she's going to do something stupid."

I lifted my shoulders a little helplessly. "I'm glad you're telling me this, Jamie, but there's really—what do you want me to do? You're closer to Maria than I _ever _was—especially now that we've grown up a little."

He sucked in a breath thorugh his clenched teeth. "I just think—she might listen to it more, coming from someone on the outside. Just—let her know we're worried about her, and we'll always support her."

I hesitated, then nodded. For the sake of old friendships—even tentative ones, which claimed no part of my heart—I could do this.

I chose my time carefully. Maria always felt better after a fight—a little high on adrenaline, perhaps. It was an endorphin-rush for her. Usually after a training session, whoever was watching us left while we could relax and cool down in the Danger Room. To be honest, the Danger Room was in some ways the safest place we had in the entire mansion: it afforded soundproofing and privacy, and I wanted more than anything to respect Maria's privacy. Truth be told, she had always been a little bit of a lone wolf—even moreso than me—and I didn't want to alienate her right away by embarrassing her in front of others.

We were scheduled to spar one Wednesday. I remember the day because it was actually right before my birthday. I was hoping against hope—silly, in fact, since of course he couldn't know—that I would happen to stumbled across Deadpool the next day. It was my dearest wish at the time, I suppose. Still, I focused on Maria, and we went through a rigorous training session.

Jamie was right. Her anger seeped into her fighting style, made her edgy and wild. Unpredictable. To be honest, it was probably one of the best practices I'd ever had. She was quick, and rather merciless in her strikes. By the time Professor Monroe called down to us to wrap it up, we were both sweating and shaking with exhausted. Still, while I was spent, Maria still seemed high on adrenaline. She paced back and forth, almost prowling, long after cool-down. I watched her, taking a deep draw from my water bottle, and offered almost timidly, "Maria?"

Her eyes flashed over to me, and for a minute, there was something so hard and animal in them that I almost didn't recognize her. For a split second, it was as though seeing Logan's eyes when he was in the grip of his battle-fury. Or locking gazes with Sabertooth, even.

Then her eyes narrowed and she was Maria again. "What?" she snapped, and I sighed.

"Look, Mare, you know I don't like to butt in to other people's business," I said slowly, "but Jamie and I have been concerned about you for a while now, and I just wanted to see how you were doing."

Her eyes narrowed even further and she stilled. "I don't know what you're talking about." Every muscle in her was tense, and it made me cringe a little. The last thing I wanted was for her to feel attacked.

"It just seems like you're so—_angry,"_ I said quietly. "We don't want to see that affect you negatively." I hesitated. "Maybe Professor Monroe can help. If you want to talk to her, I mean."

She was facing me now, taking a few steps forward, her claws lengthening. My eyes widened at the silent threat, but I still didn't make too much of it—though we'd always butted heads, I couldn't imagine truly fighting Maria. She was still my friend, after a fashion.

"I am _not _some half-crazed feral mutant," she hissed. "Is _that_ what you think, Terry? _Siryn?"_ The last word was a sneer.

I hesitated. Maria _was_ a feral, something vulpine with both dog- and cat-like tendencies, but infinitely more vicious and quick to attack. She had been fighting that aspect of her personality for years now—ever since I'd known her, surely—and I knew how hard it could be for Logan and for some of the other ferals. There were even stories, about Sabertooth and October, that led me to believe the feral nature could never be entirely repressed, not even when the mutant truly tried.

My hesitation was my mistake, however. I had underestimated the inner turmoil that fighting her nature must have unleashed in her. She had always been sensitive about the topic; now, faced with even the thought of failure, she let loose, her fingers curling into talons that could peel through skin like butter. Perhaps I had likewise overestimated the contentment she felt after a brawl—or perhaps her contentment had simply decreased over the years, and I hadn't been paying close enough attention.

Enraged, she lunged, and I tipped backward over the bench in shock, trying to leap away from her clawed hands. Without thinking, I gripped her wrists as they descended on me, and used my feet to propel her over my head. She crashed into the wall even as I scrambled to my feet.

"Maria, stop," I said swiftly, holding my hands up in surrender. "I didn't mean—"

But she was rolling to her feet, her pretty mouth twisted in a snarl, and I backed up a step unconsciously. It was silly, in retrospect, how many times I opened myself up for attack, or engaged in the behaviors that I knew were sure to call out the predator in her. My fear must have burned through her, because her eyes sparkled suddenly—with an intense _satisfaction_, a kind of gloating over her own raw power—and she leapt toward me again.

I was loath to hit her in a real fight, and it showed. My reaction time slowed by half—maybe more. She backhanded me brutally and I realized vaguely that I was airborne before I crashed back down to earth, my hips bruising as they met the floor. When she came at me this time, I was ready—despite my daze—and I planted my feet firmly into her stomach once more, lurching and throwing her into the wall while at the same time rolling to my feet. When she came again, I met her fist for fist. Sweat poured into my eyes, but it didn't slow me. I got a few quick hits in, hoping she would back off—but even then, even though I am strong, I was never a match for a feral in hand-to-hand combat. It was then that I realized, quite suddenly and brutally, with infinite clarity, that she certainly meant to _kill _me.

This wasn't just a fight, or a brawl.

This was death, coming for one of us.

The realization jarred me, threw off my movements, and as I glanced back to the surveillance room, hoping against hope that Professor Monroe had returned, I was met with a swift fist to the throat. I fell back, guttering and choking for air, and as she leaned into me, her claws extended, her eyes glittering with rage and something like savage pride, I drew in a breath, opened my throat up, and screamed.

The sound rocked her back. Hands to her ears, she stumbled and fell to her knees. I scrambled upright, then screamed again for good measure. I meant to incapacitate her, to still her. I could get out of the Danger Room, I thought—lock her in until I could get Logan and Professor Monroe to come help her.

I have since learned that when someone looks at you with death in their eye—you _must _kill them.

I fled to the door, expecting the scream to hold her in stasis for just a moment more. I must have, I think, underestimated her strength and her healing abilities. Stupid, really. I reached the door, flung it open, even as I felt her hand around the back of my neck.

Her claws sank into my throat, and tore.

Blood splashed out in a wave, spattering the hopen door frame, the corridor outside. I flung myself from her, more flesh tearing as I went—I could hear the sick sound of it in my ears, feel the cold air, the gaping wound. I slammed the heavy door back behind me, crushing her forearm with a sickening _crunch_, and she howled before yanking the appendage back.

The world was red and blurry, with amorphous black shadows leaping across it. I thought first of 'Pool's mask, but then realized vaguely that I had blood in my eyes. Weakly, I flung my body at the vault-closure of the door, letting gravity and my own weight do the work of closing it. As I sank down, my ear pressed to the cold tile, I thought I heard footsteps—running, running.

But all I could see was red and black, red and black, a never-ending pattern of leather on leather.

**dpdpdpdpdpdpdpdpdpdpdpdpdpdpdpdpdpdpdp**

I was all right—if you can use such a word, I suppose. By that I mean that they kept me carefully tucked away in a hospital wing, stitching me closed. Dr McCoy watched over me fanatically, especially once Maria somehow managed to escape. It took me days to maintain any real sense of consciousness: moreover, I would wake dazed and try to speak, baffled and confused. The faces swam over me: Dr McCoy, dear Jamie, Logan, Kitty, even Piotr. My mouth was dry, and my throat felt swollen and bruised. Everything ached. The muscles in my neck were on fire, and I couldn't swallow. The air rattled in me as I tried to scream: burning, tearing. Dr McCoy would have to give me a sedative, terrified that I would undo all his careful work, even while they barricaded my head on either side so I couldn't twist and thrash.

The confusion and pain of waking was still better than the sleeping. Drug-induced dreams were a torment for me. I could feel the splinters in my knees as I was dragged out from under my bed, and then I was looking into the eyes of my once-friend Maria as she bore down on me with her talons. Some of my dreams were fragments of my past; others were entirely new phantasms that I had never known to well in the recesses of my mind before. While I slept, I was hunted and stalked, and even my basic victim's power had been torn from me. In my dreams, I screamed and screamed, but no-one could hear me.

But mercy came too, in rare shadows and fragments. Sometimes—I know now it was a dream, or at least, I think it was a dream—I would see 'Pool, the slick red leather of his mask, the stitched black shapes around his bruised eyes. His mask tucked over his nose—the tattered remnants of a misshapen grin, a mouth that had never healed properly. Once, Logan told me later, I woke up with a jolt, my mouth opened in a silent scream, my lips forming around the name:

_Deadpool._

In the moments that I thought I saw him, I was soothed. Peace came, for however short a time. I felt safe with him watching over me.

When I finally woke for real, I was groggy. Everything in me was sore, and my throat burned and ached. I felt as though I had spent the week in the grip of a ferocious flu: every muscle in my torso was stretched taut and cramping. Limp, I rolled my head to one side—they had removed the barriers that kept me relatively still in my sleep. Dr McCoy was sitting by my bedside, and even through the haze I could tell he was exhausted. I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

For a moment—an eternity—I didn't understand. The first thought that rose, unbidden, to my mind was the terror that I had been mutilated like 'Pool, my mouth sewn shut, my victim's power silenced and locked away deep inside. Frantically, I felt my lips, but they were intact—undamaged. Slowly, memories returned to me in fragments, and I let my hands drift down to the thick gauze collar at my throat. Underneath, I knew there would be rows of bristling black stitches, like boar's hair.

Silently, helplessly, I began to cry. My tears were a strange mixture: fear, rage, helplessness, but also a sort of relief that I had not been killed, and a dread kind of loneliness and isolation.

There was nothing I could say, no way to communicate. I was cut off from the world in every way that I knew. I couldn't even wake my doctor, who snored softly in his chair beside me.

Dr McCoy woke soon enough, of course. And there was a veritable parade of visitors: Logan and Jamie were a near-constant; and when Marie D'Ancanto and Roman returned, both sat and talked with me for hours, in spite of my sullen silence. Kitty was there, her eyes glistening with worry.

I healed. Slowly. Dr McCoy was very careful about how much I exerted myself, when and how I was allowed to use my throat. Liquids for interminable weeks, and then only soft foods. Careful cleaning of the stitches.

I slunk around the mansion like a spoiled brat, sulking in my misery. I sat silently on the grass, watching others engage in sports and training and games, allowing my misery to overtake me. Logan called me a whiny child at one point, but I only turned away moodily from his prodding. The threads in my throat began to dissolve as the skin sealed shut and my pipes began knitting together. Dr McCoy was trying all he could, but there was only a "thirty-percent chance" that I would ever speak again, despite the mild healing factor that came with my mutation—in fact, he added wistfully, it was a miracle I had survived at all, and surely a normal human would have died.

It was no real triumph for me, though. I had fought for so long to be _worth _something in this place, and now, even the slim advantage of my voice had been taken away.

I went out to watch the dawn one morning. I had missed meditating and still did it on ocassion, though it all seemed worthless to me now. In spite of Logan and Professor Monroe's constant pushing, I couldn't see myself ever truly becoming a part of the X-Men. Not now. I was tired of fighting—not of fighting the bad guys, but of fighting myself. I had given up on any other form of training though, allowing my muscles to soften, even as I sunk deeper into darkness.

This was how he found me—red hair blazing in the dawn even as he pushed his way through the hedges.

"Damn things. I am a firm believer in trimming the shrubbery, for Chrissakes."

His mocking, smug chuckle. His double-entendres.

I could have recognized his voice in my sleep.

And his scent: leather, fireworks, gunpowder, steel.

"Well, if it isn't Rourke Cassidy, Captain of the X-men Pussy Ship Brigade. Long time, no see, princess. No hug for me?"

I turned slowly. I wasn't surprised that he was here. Par tof me had known he would come. It was inevitable that he would see be brought low. I stared at him, my lips pressed firmly to keep them from trembling. Still, I could see his gaze zero in on my mouth.

One eye twitched slightly. "Is dollface bitter?" the words were light, teasing, but I could see by the clench of his jaw that he was irritated by my silence. He made a loose gesture with his hand, brushing imaginary lint off his leather-clad shoulders. "Sorry I can't be at your beck'n'call, screamer, but I gotta life. People to kill, ladies to—well, you know." A leer. "Is _that_ what's got your panties in a bunch?"

My face, I'm sure, flamed as red as my hair, but I kept my mouth stubbornly pursed. I realized sharply that 'Pool was no longer talking to a naïve girl of seventeen, but to a young woman who had long since crested twenty—and I was suddenly certain that Deadpool was remarkably aware of this fact.

A scowl under the taut red leather. "Come all this way to ay hi to an old friend—would it kill you to smile?" Nothing, and then: _"Chin up,_ would you, princess—"

I jolted sharply, and my eyes narrowed. Though I knew it was only a bitter attempt to get me to speak, to smile, I took the phrase at face value and jerked my head, chin pointing defiantly to the sky.

I think I had never heard Deadpool fall so abruptly silent.

"_Jesus, Rourke—"_

And then his leather-cool hands were gently brushing the skin, skating over the still-pink scar tissue with a deftness that shouldn't have been surprising, given his remarkable delicacy with the katana. I shivered and stepped back, dropping my eyes and narrowing them at him swiftly.

"What the hell happened to you, you feeb? Didn't I fucking _tell _you not to get yourself in some big fuckin' mess?"

I wanted to glower at him, but the expression quivered apart almost before I had managed it. His voice wasn't its usual dry, sardonic mockery, but short and fierce. He was _furious. _

And I was miserable.

"_Well?"_ he snapped. "You feel all _grown-up_ now, Wendy? Prove yourself? _Join the X-men, get a free target painted on your chest!_ You could have died, you—_twat." _Ferocity. _"Answer me,goddammit—"_

I lifted my chin just an inch and tapped my ruined throat with my fingertips, closing my eyes so he couldn't see the tears clustering there. I felt so helpless, and I didn't want him to see me that way, too.

I think it took him a moment to realize what I was trying to say, but then his fingers slid over my shoulders suddenly: cool and strong, thick as they anchored against my flesh.

"Princess—I'm sorry. I'm a crude bastard. I'm a dick. I know it."

I found myself pulled into his arms, and suddenly it felt like the last time he had visited: when I had hugged him, and known that I belonged somewhere. His arms were thick around me, holding me in tightly, pressed against him while one gloved hand stroked firmly through my thick red hair. I nestled in against him, feeling safe for the first time in months. I had no idea what it was about him that made my world seem so much smaller, so snug and secure and protected.

"I know what it's like to have a hundred things you want to say," he said after a moment, his voice strangely hoarse in a way I'd never heard fro him before, "and to not be able to say it. You got all these thoughts rattling around in your pretty little head and no way to get 'em out—am I right?"

I thought of how it must have been for him, controlled by a madman who gave no thought for his free will. Silenced, shut away in a corner of his mind where he could still think, exist, want—and never able to voice those thoughts or act in the ways he desired. No wonder he was a little bit crazy—who could survive that intact?

Suddenly, I was ashamed of my own misery. Still, his arms didn't loosen, and I suddenly knew more clearly than I had ever known anything that he was thinking of how he had never wanted this for me. For 'Pool, silence was an inhuman torture, and he might have given—well, _anything—_to spare me it.

We moved to the bench under the trees, and I curled into his side, clutching at the slick leather over his arm and laying my head against his shoulder.

"M'gonna get you a little dry-erase board to wear around your neck, Cap'n Cass," he said after a minute. I cracked a smile, more for his benefit than anything else. "You're gonna heal up, you know? Then you're gonna fuckin' _butcher_ the eardrums of whoever did this to you…is the bastard still alive, screa—uh, princess?"

I flinched at his avoidance of the old nickname, then nodded in the affirmative with a gesture meant to communication bafflement. _She's free and alive, but no-one knows where._

"You training to take her out when she comes back, Rourke?"

I jumped and stared at him, then shook my head. _No._ What could I possibly do in this state? Even when I was whole, I had only my voice, my mild healing factor—certainly not enough to protect me from her—and the strength and speed of a relatively normal woman of my age, maybe just a tad stronger. There was nothing I could do against Maria, if she decided to return.

'Pool rolled his eyes. "Why the hell not? What happens if she comes back to you? You gonna wrap yourself up like a Christmas present and just hand yourself over?"

I flushed and started to shake my head, then stopped and tilted it. I had no idea what I would do—except maybe hide.

As if reading my mind, he said, "Captain Rourke Cassidy ain't the running kind."

I hesitated, and then so did he, tilting his head to look down at me with a cynical twist of his brow. "F'I stay and train you myself, will you try?"

I couldn't remember ever having such a long strain of serious conversation with him. Numbed by his offer, I nodded mutely. His eyes were on my mouth again, and then he eached out and brushed a thumb over my lower lip.

Promising to train with him, to try, was a small price to pay in order to get him to stay—just a little bit longer.

"Let's start now," he urged, his voice giddy. He rocked forward on his toes, moving from the bench—excited, barely-restrained.

I blinked, my eyes widening, and stepped back, making slicing motions with my hands. _No, no. _I wasn't ready. Not by any stretch of the imagination. I'd grown lazy in my sullenness. My muscles had slowly turned soft.

"Gotta begin somewhere, Rourke," he said exuberantly, lifting both fists as his knees bent carefully. I cringed back, expecting to be knocked off my feet like Kitty. Instead, there was a sickening sound of tearing flesh, and then the katana slid forth.

"M'not gonna go easy on you, princess," he purred, dropping into stance. "Gonna make you _beg."_

_Perv, _I mouthed.

He laughed, and then lunged. He hadn't lied either; he did not let up on me because my training had grown lax, nor did he acknowledge my weaponlessness. The morning passed in a blur of bruises and gasps, my lungs jarring in my chest again and again as I was knocked to the ground, the world spiraling around me. My jeans and t-shirt tore under the delicate attention of his katana; on more than one occasion my skin was knicked and scratched, just enough to sting.

"You gotta beat me, Rourke," he muttered once, when I was growing tired. "We can stop for now, but I'm not letting up till you _win. _If you can beat me, you can beat just about anything that comes your way." A childish grin from under the mask. "And take your time, cupcake. The longer you take, the more times I get to cut off your clothes." As if to prove it, he flicked one blade and one shoulder of my t-shirt was torn clean through, allowing it to sag and pool over my left breast.

I stamped my foot, furious at him, and furious with my inability to snark back at him the way I wanted. He was snickering gaily under his mask, his eyes fastened on the patch of revealed flesh, and I shrank back, blushing silently, tugging my clothing to cover as much as possible while heat pooled in my cheeks and between my thighs.

True to his word, he showed up every morning to train me, and we sparred again at night. I was amazed by his agility, his speed, his strength. It seemed as though every bit of him was made of muscle, yet he moved lightly, sparingly, quicker than my eyes could catch. In the afternoons, I began training again with the X-men, and sometimes Logan would watch me with narrowed eyes, his nostrils flaring. I would avoid his gaze, but I knew he smelled Deadpool on me. The question was only why he didn't mention it aloud.

It became a ritual. Mornings and evenings, I was with him, fighting drowsiness on both ends of the clock. Still, when I wasn't trying to best him in combat, he was making me laugh with his sarcastic commentary and running one-sided conversation. He certainly didn't need a partner in order to monologue. I missed being able to sass back at him, but my compulsory silence was probably a blessing in disguise. It took me a while to realize that the heat flushing my body wasn't just from the adrenaline and sweat of fighting. Even when we were relaxing on the lawn, I felt like my muscles were tense, my abdomen clenched, and every nerve in me was hyperaware of his presence. Warmth came off me in waves and I felt like I was perpetually blushing. When I realized that his presence alone was triggering this reaction—that it was a symptom of my growing adult attraction to him—I became flustered, which only served to make me blush harder. Had I been able to speak, my words would have been garbled and tongue-tied, and surely he would have noticed then. As it was, I think he chalked up my burning skin to the exertion of our sparring.

I knew better, though. I knew what was under the surface of my own skin: desire. Arousal.

Longing.

No matter what 'Pool said—or Logan, or Sabertooth, or Storm—this was the man who kept watch while I slept, who was teaching me to guard against attackers like Maria. I knew with in the deepest parts of me that he was a good man, and I knew I needed him in my life.

We worked together for weeks, for months, and one afternoon after training, Professor Monroe and Logan took me aside. I stood rigid and still, certain that Logan was finally calling me to task on keeping silence for Deadpool again. Perhaps, a few years or even months earlier, it would have struck me as bitterly unfair that they would chastise me when I could not speak to defend myself. I would have fumed at the perceived injustice. Now, however—with Maria's attack, my own descent into depression, and the remarkably comforting presence of 'Pool in the back of my mind, egging me on and goading me out of my misery, I found myself feeling only the faintest twinge of anxiety. Otherwise, I was calm and composed, ready to take whatever came, willing to admit my own faults and contributions to the problem.

Experiences can transform you, I think, if you let them. Certainly, the last nine months had involved a shifting of the continents, a change deep in the foundations of my world.

Pangea, again. A version of it.

I had expected disappointment from Professor Monroe. The bone-deep animal anger from Logan. I had prepared myself for it.

Instead, Professor Monroe leaned forward. "We're impressed by the dramatic turn-around in your training," she said quietly. "I'm not sure what triggered this change in heart, Miss Cassidy, or the sudden increase in skill-level, but you are doing magnificently. You're fast advancing above and beyond not only what we expected for you, but to skill-levels above and beyond those of your peers."

I flicked my eyes toward Logan, who was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, eyeing me knowingly. It shocked me, that he hadn't told Professor Monroe yet. We both knew why my performance had improved: because I was sparring with a _crazy man,_ one who didn't abide by moral—or even logical—rules of battle. I had learned to be prepared for anything, to be imaginative, to be resourceful beyond reason.

"Your hand-to-hand combat is top-knotch, and your stealth movements are—_unparalleled._" She paused. "By far, you are the best we currently have in your bracket. In many brackets. Therefore, we want to ask you to take part in a one-person mission—"

I lost what she said after that. I was stunned. For years, I had struggled to reconcile why my peers and mentors thought me so weak, and had blamed in part my mutation, my victim's cry. When I finally was accepted into the ranks as an X-man, I had assumed that it was again my voice that gotten me there. It was the only strength I had, and it ws a weak one.

But now, I was finally receiving the responsibility I had sought so desperately, the task I had craved—a mission on my own—and it was after losing the only strength I'd thought I'd had.

Perhaps they saw more in me than I thought. Perhaps they saw more than even I did.

I signed rapidly—not in standard sign-language but in a mixture of formal hand signals and more organic gestures—trying to get Professor Monroe to pause. She did, and I sat still for a moment, trying to process through. She waited, and when I finally looked up again, she said slowly, "It's an infiltration in Vermont. There's been some activity at a known Brotherhood base-camp which we thought to be abandoned. It looks like there's been some radio activity from that area. We think a new recruit, code-named _Feral, _has been sent there to hold that base as a provisionary camp for mutant terrorists who need shelter, but we're not entirely sure. We need someone to infiltrate, figure out what is going on, and report back to us. We don't want you to do anything unless you have to in self-defense—just stay out of sight until you can get a hold of us, and from there we'll send back-up as necessary."

I sat still, my hands knotted in my lap. Unbidden, the thought rose in my head: _I wonder if Deadpool will come with me._

"There's a catch of course, darlin'," rumbled Logan. I looked up at him sharply, and a faint smile curled the corner of his mouth. "We think the new recruit might be Maria."

My blood ran cold. _Maria. _For a second, I sat frozen. I could feel my eyes widening, my mouth trembling. I must have looked like a deer in headlights. Logan was a friend—an increasingly dear one at that, and a mentor—but nothing could completely squash the predator within. His nostrils flared at the sight –and scent, I've no doubt—of my fear.

Still, he went on. "We know you can handle her, Terry," he said quietly. His voice was low and soothing. "We wouldn't send you if we thought you couldn't. You're strong—not just quick and lethal," he clarified with a dry chuckle, "but smart and powerful up here." He tapped one finger to his temple. "And here," he added, pressing a closed fist to his sternum.

I pressed my quivering lips together, narrowed my eyes, and nodded once, firmly.

"Are you sure?" Professor Monroe asked after a moment. "We can give you a day or two to think about it, but the sooner you leave, the better."

I gestured with my hands. _Tomorrow._ Another decisive nod. _I'll leave tomorrow._

I stood immediately, not willing to let Professor Monroe try to change my mind. I knew she wanted me to go, but I could also tell from the frown marring her smooth brow that she was disturbed by my quick response.

"We'll fly you out and drop you over the site, then," she murmured, looking conflicted—a rare expression on her usually austere features. "Be ready at oh-seven hundred hours."

I turned to leave, only to feel Logan's massive hand at my elbow. He followed me out the door, close at my heels, and as soon as we were out of Professor Monroe's hearing range, he said quietly, "You need to get some sleep tonight, darlin'. Don't waste all your time sayin' good-bye to that nutty bastard."

I shot him a sideways glance and signed, _I have no idea what you're talking about._ My expression was deadpan, though, and Logan understood that my denial was more of a formality than a true lie. His hand tightened on my elbow, and before I knew what he was about, he'd drawn me into a sharp hug. "Be careful, Terry."

An awkward release, and he turned quickly and walked away. I realized suddenly how he must miss Marie—Rogue—now that she was grown-up and practically married to Roman. Once upon a time, she had been a little sister to him. I think there were parts of Logan that needed something or someone to hold on to.

It made me a little sad, to think of leaving him. In some ways, it seemed like he hated people; in others, I think he was desperate for company.

In many ways, he was like Deadpool.

As soon as it was dark, I left the shelter of the mansion, my eyes on the woods hemming in the south side of the lawn. It was cold out, a light snow falling, and I shivered. He was there, waiting for me, both katana extended, crouching into a battle stance.

I made a slicing motion with my hands, and he rose fluidly, the katana re-sheathing themselves in his arms with a soft _schink. _

It took forever, for me to tell him what I needed to. That I was leaving, that I was on a mission—one that might put me face-to-face with Maria. It turned into a parody of sign language, an awful game of charades, and I couldn't tell when 'Pool was honestly trying to guess what I was saying and when he was just being an ass. Finally, though, he caught on—or had mercy—and I slumped into the grass, a little exhausted.

"You want me to go with you."

I shot him a dirty look. Nearly an hour's worth of me trying to tell him the basic outline of the thing, and yet he could somehow discern the nuances of it in mere seconds? I was more convinced than ever that he'd simply been messing with my head, seeing how long he could keep me trying to sign to him.

He looked vaguely uncomfortable now, though, his eyes flicking away from mine. "I think this is one of those things you gotta do on your own, Rourke."

I let my eyes slide away. I hated when he tried to be wise—usually because he succeeded. It was unfair that someone who was so often immature, and so childish, could also be so perceptive and so instinctively _right. _

"You gotta face her. That's what we've been working towards, right?"

I closed my eyes, and he leaned toward me.

"When you find her," he whispered, his eyes drilling into mine, the faint ghost of his mouth moving behind the leather, slightly muffled, "when you find her—_take it back. _Your voice. Take back what she took from you. It's the only way you'll ever feel in control of yourself again."

I shivered, but I didn't know if it was at the truth and intensity of his words—so fierce, I knew, because he'd experienced it himself—or if it was from his nearness, the heat of his body caressing mine.

I reached out with a shaking hand and laid it against his cheek, then let it skim down to the side of his throat. My palm rested there, soaking up his warmth, the feel of his pulse thudding against my skin. His eyes flickered for a moment, and then he drew back, smirking. "Can't keep your hands off me, huh, princess?"

**dpdpdpdpdpdpdpdpdpdpdpdpdpdpdpdpdpdpdp**

I realized later that 'Pool was full of shit. I felt his presence in Vermont, a silent entity at my back, lurking in the shadows.

In the morning, it was not Professor Monroe or Logan who flew me over Vermont, but Sabertooth—Victor Creed. He was scowling and angry as he gestured me roughly into the helicopter, and when I tentatively queried after his role in this event, I found that he had actually been the on eto give the information of the site to Logan and Professor Monroe.

"The frail made me do it," he growled, looking pissed. I knew he meant October. As though realizing his own apparent weakness, though, he cast a sideways sneer at me. "She just begged _so prettily,_ on her knees like that—"

I turned away. I liked October—loved her even, perhaps, and felt closer to her than most of the girls at the mansion, in spite of her age—but I didn't care to hear about whatever power-and-control games she was playing with Sabertooth. To my relief, he ignored me after that, as though his point had been made, and the only other time he spoke to me was when he gruffly ordered me to suit up and "get off his goddamn chopper." The jump was easy, smooth, and I landed without an issue on the roof of the secluded, warehouse-like structure before spraying myself with some of the hazy blue fluid Professor Monroe had given me. It was supposed to help diffuse my scent, in case the mutant recruit at the base camp was a feral, as per its codename.

In case it was Maria.

I crept in through the chutes, rappelling in near silence into the attic crawlspaces, moving through the narrow places between the walls.

The next three days were the longest and most boring of my life, to be honest. I won't waste time recounting them all. Suffice it to say that the recruit was, of course, Maria—who else could it be, with my luck?—and that she was indeed running the base as a shelter for militant mutant terrorists, all under Magneto's orders. She was also ferrying information back and forth between these groups and the Brotherhood. It surprised me, to be honest: with her bloodlust, I could hardly understand how she could remain in such mundane quarters for so long. Still, I discovered that her longing to prove herself to them curtailed any latent fury she was struggling with; rather, she funneled that feral energy into her attempts to succeed in her mission.

All the time, while I waited and watched, I felt 'Pool at my back. He wasn't in the walls with me, I knew. But he was near. The prickle on my neck and the tension in my abdomen told me so. He was watching the warehouse—perhaps even _in _the warehouse—and he was keping an eye on me.

I felt safe. I knew, now, that he wouldn't interfere—not unless I was in mortal danger, maybe not even then—but it still gave me a measure of security, to know that I had a friend watching my back.

If I were going to die this mission, I wouldn't die alone.

When I thought I had all the information I needed, I went to the roof. There was a light dusting of snow and a heavy cloud-cover; I hoped I would get the reception I needed. I turned on the cell phone that had been tucked in the inner lining of my uniform, along with the tiny mallet I had brought with me. The phone rang, and when Professor Monroe's voice came over the other end, I began to tap out my information on the reciever in Morse code.

"Slow down," Professor Monroe urged, her voice tinny and metallic over the lines. "The connection is bad; I'm not sure what I'm hearing—"

I tried again, struggling with my own impatience as I began tapping out the information once more. And then, suddenly, the tingle at the back of my neck grew stronger, and I paused.

_Wait—_I tapped.

I turned a second before Maria descended, teeth bared, coarse hair flying back like Logan's, her claws extended and ready to rip.

I tore backward, flinging the phone aside, and drove my feet squarely into Maria's chest, flipping her over my head. She slid over the edge of the roof, scrabbling with her claws for purchase, and I launched to my feet. I heard 'Pool's voice in my head, egging me on as we sparred, his katana moving in a way that seemed almost precognitive, blocking every move I could make:

_Don't wait. You know what she'll do. You know it even before she does. You _know _it. _

I catapulted forward, my boot catching her under the collarbone, flinging her off the edge of the roof. The snow was drifted below, and though she landed on her feet, cat-like, the force of the impact and the deeper drifts caught her unawares. She stumbled, landing hard on her back, and I lept down silently, straddling her stomach and driving one fist against her throat.

I felt the inner pipings of her neck give way under my fist, yielding to the strike. Her vocal cords collapsed under the blow, but I didn't smile. My eyes, I knew, were cold.

She'd heal. Quicker than I would, too. I'd had nearly a year to recuperate, and I still had no doubt she'd have her voice back before I'd have mine.

It didn't stop her, though. Perhaps the pent-up rage of her weeks of boredom were gleeful for an outlet. With a rush of air through her ruined throat, she grabbed my fist as it came down again, and I knew she was going to use my own momentum against me to throw me down. Instead of fighting it, I rolled into the motion, pulling her with me. We rolled across the snow, both of us silent except for the harsh and voiceless gasps and guttural panting. I ended up on top again, and this time I slammed both fists into her face: first one, then the other. The cartilage of her nose crunched wetly beneath my knuckles. She buckled and bent-double, her ankles hooking around my throat as she flipped my backward. Again, I rolled into it, even as she followed, her torso snaking between my legs as she drove both elbows into my stomach. The air was forced from my lungs and for a second, my mouth was filled with the acidic taste that heralds vomit. Still, 'Pool had taught me how to ignore it, how to survive when breathless. I caught her wrists even as she scrambled up my body and slammed the crown of my head between her eyes as hard as I could.

She blinked, seeing stars, and I drove a knee up into her chin, snapping her jaw shut. A rush of air squealed out of her and she jerked to one side, spitting blood and teeth into the snow. When she reared back, furious, I saw that at one of them had been a fang—the other was loose and bloody, hanging precariously in her reddened gums. Her hands closed around my throat, tightening, even as I bucked wildly in attempt to throw her off. I slammed one forearm cross-wise into the insides of her elbows and her claws sank deeply into my skin. For a moment, my mind flashed back to the moment when my throat had been torn out. I saw the recognition in her eyes, too—the malicious, gloating smile. Her hands tightened further and I knew she was going to make me relive that nightmare—for a short while, anyway. Until she killed me.

_You know what she'll do,_ I thought of Deadpool saying, even as she bared her teeth and opened her mouth. I knew she wanted to taste my blood this time, tear out my vocal cords with her teeth.

Without thinking, I reached up and pinched her loose fang viciously, twisting and yanking. She jerked back, her hands loosening in shock and pain as I ripped the incisor free, tearing a chunk of the wet pink tissue of her gum with it. She fell back, stunned, her hands at her mouth, even as I opened my palm and slammed the loose fang point-first into the hollow of her throat.

_How does it feel?_ I wanted to ask.

Instead, I rolled on top of her and slammed the heel of my palm into her throat again, driving the embedded fang deeper, crushing her already-healing trachea once more. She was scrambling away—or trying to—her body moving beneath mine so violently that I was practically riding her as she moved through the snow. I used the sides of both hands like a blade, an axe, and chopped viciously at either side of her neck. Her eyes nearly crossed and I knew her vision was blurring, darkening. Her pupils pulsed, trying to grasp reality.

I drove a fist under her chin, and awkward sort of uppercut from this angle, before backing off and dragging her to her feet. A left jab, right cross, left hook, right uppercut, and again she was down on her back, her knees raised as though she were preparing to give birth. Her breath rattled loosely in her throat.

_Get up, _I mouthed, and to my surprise, some parts of the words came out like a whisper—nowhere near true speech yet, but certainly an improvement._Get up, _I tried again. _I'm not going to kill you—not like this, Maria. Get up._

Her eyes focused—slowly. Her gaze fastened on me and she dragged herself slowly to her feet. Suddenly, I remembered her a hundred different ways: the sulking girl who had greeted me with Jamie Madrox on my arrival at the mansion, the uncomfortable dryness of her humor, her bitter cynicism as a teenager. Her moodiness, the way she clutched at Jamie, wanting him. The rare moments of genuine kindness.

Now her eyes were wide on mine, full of fear. I tensed, ready for her, waiting for her to make the first move. I hated her—hated herviolently—but _I _was the one in power now. My strength manifested as _I _chose. Unlike Maria, it didn't rule me. And if I had to temper it with compassion, or with mercy, then I would.

And if I had to slaughter her in the snow, then I would.

I waited, and to my utter shock, she suddenly whirled on one foot and fled, stumbling, away from the warehouse and toward the woods. My fists loosened in surprise and I dropped them, stunned—and _pleased._ I had won. I had never run from Maria, but she was running from me—

A hulking shadow stepped from the woods: huge, broad shoulders, dark hair and short, bristly 'chops, a vicious little smirk dented by two fangpoints and dark animal-eyes. Sabertooth.

He caught Maria with one hand at her throat and then, without so much as looking at her, flicked his wrist. I heard her neck snap from where I stood, a sickening _crack_ that echoed in the wintery silence. When he dropped her carelessly—almost tossing her away from him, like a dead rat or a piece of garbage—she sprawled with a soft, muffled _thump _in the snow.

I stared at him, and he must have read the question in my eyes. He shrugged. "I was still hanging 'round in the area. For the pick-up, if needed. The runt asked me to check up on you—said some transmission or something had been cut short." A snort. "You ready to go home, frail?"

I cast my eyes to Maria. She stared up blindly at the sky. Snowflakes were starting to cluster in her eyelashes.

Sabertooth snorted. "Don't worry 'bout her. Mags'll find her soon enough." He turned his back, stalking into the woods. "Come or don't," he said bitingly over his shoulder. "Fuck knows I don't care if you freeze yerself to death out here."

I hesitated and lifted my head, scanning the trees for some sight of Deadpool. None, but I knew he was there, knew it as surely as I knew Maria was dead, in spite of the fact that Sabertooth seemed either oblivious or uncaring.

With a barely-audible sigh, I followed the feral assassin and climbed wearily back into the chopper.

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There was a new student at the Institute when I got back: a beautiful young girl, just a little older than I had been when I'd arrived. She had ink-colored hair, so black that in certain light it shone blue, and beautiful almond-shaped eyes. Her skin was flawless, gold and cream, and she had a sassy grin that I liked. She was curious, too, leaning over my bed while I lay with cool compresses around my throat. Dr McCoy was anxious to take down the swelling caused by Maria's vicelike grip at my throat.

"You're the one that can't speak, right?" the girl asked. "Are you sick? When I was sick my mom used to tell me stories. Do you want to hear a story?"

I gestured at her. _Tell me _your _story._

She grinned, dark eyes sparkling, and tossed her glossy hair. She had a pleasant, mild sort of arrogance to her, and I liked her even more.

"I used to be training in gymnastics with my mother. She and my father were both immigrants from China, and we were pretty wealthy. I loved them a lot, and they loved each other. My group of friends?--it was rare to find anyone who grew up with a loving family. I was lucky." She shrugged. "They died when I was still pretty little—murdered by hitmen, actually—and I was sent to an orphanage." She wrinkled her nose. "I hated it there. Wol—Logan said your parents died too, and you lived with your uncle for a while, and then moved here. Believe me, you're lucky you bypassed the orphanage stage." Another nose-wrinkle. "They smell funny."

I smiled in spite of myself. I thought her use of the term _grew up _was interesting, seeing how young she still was. She spoke like someone older—but then, hadn't I done the same? Hadn't every mutant child who had stepped through these doors?

"Anyway, I ran away. Lived in the Hollywood Mall for a while. That was when I found out I could do this." She lifted her hands and I watched in awe as blue electricity flooded her fingertips, setting her face aglow. Small sparks snapped and exploded in her hands, as though she held a firework captive in her palms.

She smiled, obviously delighted at my reaction.

"That was when Wo—Logan found me," she whispered conspiratorially. "The security guards had been after me for days and had actually hired a group of freelance mutants to hunt me out, and Logan saved me, and brought me here."

There was something like hero-worship in her eyes, and I thought again of Logan, and how he needed someone to take care of, someone to hold on to.

"Hey, Terry, darlin'," a dark voice rumbled as the door eased open.

_Speak of the devil, _I mouthed, and again found that some bits of the words were audible. Logan raised his eyebrows in surprise at my returning voice, then cut a glance toward the girl sitting at my elbow. She was grinning from ear to ear, practically bouncing in her seat, and I knew suddenly that she wanted more than anything to launch herself at Logan in a little-girl hug. I wondered at how much she had loved her parents, and how eager she was to attach herself to an adult like Logan.

"Wolvie," she said earnestly, her voice urgent in its greeting.

_Wolvie. _

I looked at Logan. His eyes softened a little at the sight of her.

"Jubes," he returned, a dry recognition even as his eyes stayed quiet. He looked calmer, more at ease than I had ever seen him.

I wondered how long it would be before these two fell in love. I imagined Logan waiting forever—and longer, if he thought he needed to. Till she grew that little-girl admiration turned into something deeper, more abiding, with rock-hard foundations that stretched further than anything he'd ever had with Professor Grey.

_I'm fine,_ I mouthed, and gestured to myself. _Healing right up._

"Is Jubilation here being a pain in the butt?" he asked mildly. "Do I need to get 'er out of your hair?"

The girl scowled, crossing her arms, but her eyes sparkled playfully. She was the kind of girl that _glowed. _

I shook my head and mimed for him to sit, and then I let them fill me in on the rest of the story.

Weeks passed. I continued healing, and my voice was rapidly returning. Dr McCoy urged me not to overwork it, and I was careful, but it was so exciting to be able to talk again that sometimes I overtaxed myself and set myself back. I continued sparring, though it wasn't the same without 'Pool to help me. I watched as Jubilation and Logan—_Jubes and Wolvie,_I thought amusedly—grew closer every day. Their friendship far surpassed whatever weird mentor/sibling relationship had existed between Logan and myself, and I was certain it would soon progress to a kind of deep-rooted mutual adoration that would put even his love for Rogue to shame.

Jamie avoided me. I think he realized, more than ever, that I had changed. I was no longer the freckle-faced red-haired girl with a sullen attitude who had somehow captivated him years ago. I was—quieter, happier, more eager to watch the world around me and enjoy the things I saw, rather than wishing they were mine. I believed in myself, not with the defensiveness I had felt in my younger years, but with a deep-seated confidence that allowed me to accept challenges and grow from them. I thought I had become a better person in the last few years, but whatever changes had been wrought in me, I was no longer the girl Jamie Madrox loved.

I thought that was for the best, and I let his friendship slip through my fingers with nothing more than a wistful and affectionate smile.

The only bad part was the dreams. They still came to me in the darkness, but they were different now—more painful, in some ways. I remembered in flashes Maria coming at me, ready to deal out death, and then Maria running away. I remembered her slaughter at the hands of Sabertooth—careless, reckless, enjoyed by her killer. I remembered the cloying, slow suffocation of silence, the splinters in my knees as I was dragged out from under the bed.

The dreams themselves only came occasionally—mainly because I could tell when Deadpool came back.

He was careful not to be seen—not even by me—but I could feel him. The tingle on my neck, the delicious tightening between my hips. I didn't understand why he didn't want me to be aware of his presence, but I played along. Still, on the nights he came—a silent guardian in the darkness—I slept better. Dreamless nights of deep rest and languorous wakings, a happy welcome to the morning.

He showed up, on and off, sometimes only staying a day, sometimes for a week or longer. I waited, but he never showed himself to me, not even when I waited at the window. No salutes, no mocking waves or teasing blown kisses, like I was used to.

I regained my voice. I went on missions. I grew older. And finally, I was tired of waiting. Tired of waiting for him to show himself, to talk to me. Tired of waiting to touch his face, trace his scars, show him how much I wanted him.

Loved him.

To be entirely truthful, I had been waiting almost a decade, when you got right down to it. It was ridiculous, what I had been hiding from myself since I'd met him, what he'd half-hidden from me and was still trying to ignore.

We'd already been wrapped up in some strange version of a love affair for nearly ten years. We'd been tangled together since I was a child, really. With that in mind, I went out into the darkness one night, my hands on my hips.

"'Pool!" I hissed into the shadows of the woods at the edge of the property. "I know you're here. Stop being a coward and come out!"

When he melted from the shadows, I shuddered. It was all I could do to keep standing. He was broader than I remembered, or perhaps I was more attuned to it now. His eyes were slitted behind the mask. "Cap'n Cass," he greeted cordially.

I rolled my eyes. "Don't be a dick," I ordered. "Act normal."

"Normal for me _is _acting like a dick," he said conversationally. "Glad to hear you got your voice back, screamer. I missed your bitching at me."

I snorted and glowered. My palms were sweating. "I've been speaking for a while now," I snapped. "As if you didn't know."

His eyes widened, then narrowed. "What does _that _mean?"

I snorted. "I know I have you backed into a corner if you can't come up with a better retort than that." I tried to say it sharply, sarcastically, but the words came out quivering. I took a step forward, breathing shallowly. Carefully, slowly, my fingers crept to the collar of my shirt. The first two buttons were already undone: I slowly shelled open the third. My fingers were shaking.

'Pool's mouth dropped open behind the mask, and his eyes fastened on the bare "V" of flesh. I hesitated, then unbuttoned the fourth and fifth.

"I know," I whispered, my voice gentling. "I know you come back to watch me while I sleep, even when you know Logan isn't here, even when there's nothing you can win against or fight. You've done it ever since I fought Maria—over a _year _now, dammit—and you didn't want me to know, for some reason." The sixth button. He could see my bra now—cream lace and sheer pleats—and a patch of belly beneath. Those damn freckles everywhere.

"It makes me feel safe," I whispered, opening the last button and letting the shirt slide off my shoulders. Even through his mask, I could see him gulp. His eyes swept over my stomach, my hips, then back up to my breasts. His mouth worked under his mask as though he were licking his lips, then he turned his gaze up toward mine.

"I'm not a little girl anymore, 'Pool," I whispered. "I haven't been for a while." I eased my hands down to the waistband of my jeans and opened them, unzipped them, let them hang limply on my hips. I hoped it looked inviting.

To my surprise, he took a step back, gloved hands raised. "Look, princess—"

"I know you love me, 'Pool. Maybe even as much as I love you."

It was a limb I had gone out on, and there was no turning back. He could laugh in my face, or say something vicious and clever, as he so often did.

He didn't though. He stood stock-still, at a loss for the first time since I'd known him, a deer in headlights. "I'm a killer, Rourke."

I stared at him evenly. "You're also a good man. Underneath it all."

"No."

"I've met men who are truly evil, 'Pool. I know what they're like. They take what they want. They destroy whatever they can." I paused. My voice gentled and I looked at him tenderly. "They don't send little girls back to bed with a promise to watch out for them. They don't hold true to that promise years later."

"You were _never_ a 'little girl,' Captain Cass."

I let a smile linger at the corner of my mouth. "And I'm certainly not now," I repeated softly, and took another step forward, then two. He staggered back a bit. Who would have thought such a big man, with katana implanted in his forearms and a dozen guns on his hips—and a truly acerbic wit—would be afraid of a skinny little woman like myself?

_I'm the most lost man you'll ever find._

I closed the distance, and this time he waited for me, his head tilted and brow furrowed as though he were trying to figure me out. Carefully, I lifted the tight fabric of his mask, stretching it and folding it back over his nose. My fingers skated his chin and jaw: light, soothing. His skin felt like knotted silk under my touch. I pulled him down toward me, leaning in so that my breasts were pushed against his chest. My lips skimmed his jawline, then peppered kisses toward his mouth.

His ravaged lips opened beneath mine and the tables turned. His arms wrapped around my waist and behind my shoulders, dragging me nearly off my toes as he hoisted me against the hard, hot panels of his body. I gasped against him, then melted into the demanding pressure of his mouth on mine, his tongue sweeping between my lips. He turned suddenly, pressing me against the tree, his face ducking down to my neck as he dragged in a ragged breath and sealed his mouth to the tender flesh adjoining my throat and shoulder.

I shuddered and sagged against him, my arms wrapping languidly around his shoulders.

He suddenly pulled back and began dropping kisses in random, haphazard patterns.

"All these damn little polka dots," he muttered feverishly.

"Freckles," I grimaced, realizing he was kissing each one on my shoulder. I thought I was pretty enough in spite of them, but they were still a flaw, and one I hated. They covered me from head to toe, even in places that had never seen sun. Embarrassment struck me suddenly, viciously, and I tensed in discomfort.

But 'Pool never ceased to surprise me. He dropped to his knees in the matted grass, putting himself on eye-level with my breasts. His gloved hands folded over them: steal wrapped in cool leather. I tipped my head back and moaned as his palms moved down to my hips and his scarred, torn mouth ghosted over the tops of my breasts, just above my bra.

"Freckles," he agreed reverently. "They're like a hundred copper pennies. I could make a wish on each one."

I should have expected it. Only Deadpool could take a part of me I thought of as ugly—and _love_ me for it. Only he could make me into a pirate, an adventuress, a force to be reckoned with on the battlefield. _Only him._ His words sent something flaring through me and I gasped, arching into his leather-clad hands. He chuckled against my skin and skated his hands up my back, tackling the clasp of my bra.

"Wait," I said suddenly, backing up against the tree, flattening his hands there. My bra loosened and sagged open, nearly revealing my bare breasts.

His face jerked up to mine, an accusation in his eyes, and I realized belatedly that he thought I'd been teasing him, mocking him.

"No—I—" I broke off, trying to gather my scattered thoughts. The look in his eyes, the hard set of his mouth, was an expression of utter and unforgiving betrayal. "I just want—" I tugged one of his hands free. They were tense, and I swallowed down my fear, gently pulling at the leather, tugging his glove off his hand. The flesh shone in the moonlight: rippled and whorled over the palm, the back of the hand; raggedly torn where they had implanted the katana, where the skin had been peeled back to make way for the wicked blade. His hand looked as though it had been chewed on by some sort of monster, and it hurt me to see it.

I took the calloused, scarred palm and placed it inside my open bra, closing my eyes at the feel of his hot, dry skin against my skin. My nipple tightened against his palm and I tipped my head back against the tree.

"I just want to feel you," I managed to whisper at last, my eyes still closed.

He was still for a moment, letting me hold his battered hand against my chest, and with a muffled curse—_"Fuck, Rourke, you're a _goddess"—he swung me down into the leaves, cradling my head to keep it from hitting the ground. I gasped at the sudden movement, then bit my lip, staring up at him. His clear eyes burned into mine as he stripped off his other glove, and then both hands were on me. I arched into him as he ran his fingers experimentally over my nipples, plucking and rolling them.

"Shirt—thing—uniform," I specified breathlessly. "Off, please."

He obliged, unzipping the tight black-and-red leather and jerking it away from him. His skin underneath was snarled, a landscape of painful-looking lumps and bitter incisions. I traced my fingers over his shoulders, wishing he was near enough for me to kiss every scar. Instead, his mouth found one of my breasts and his hand moved downward, sliding my jeans down. I wriggled, trying to help him, and he paused when he came back to my underwear.

"Dammit, Rourke, are you trying to kill me?"

I laughed a little, breathless. The bikinis I was wearing had bows on the hips, begging to be untied.

"I've been planning this for a while," I teased softly.

He cursed and snagged one ribbon, loosening the bows first on one side, then on the other. The satin fell away softly and I shuddered at the feel of it before he cupped my damp sex, grinding his palm gently against me. I gasped, then arched into him, moaning, and he grinned.

"That answers _that_ question," he murmured. _You a screamer or a moaner? _"Hang on for the ride, princess, and try not to get too loud."

With that, he rolled back, pulling me on top of him, loosening his artillery belt and unbuttoning himself, then positioning me over him. My thighs pressed into his hips, and I could feel the hot edge of his skin just above the cool leather waist of his pants, and the cold steel of the guns holstered there, biting into my soft skin. I shuddered and stroked my hands over the bare, knotted scars of his chest, the painful-looking lumps, the lines carved into him like a roadmap for surgery. Slowly, I eased myself onto him, drawing a seething breath in between my teeth at the slow, painful intrusion.

"Cassidy?" Concern laced his voice. "Jesus, you're not—"

"No," I said quickly. "No. It's just been—a long time."

He was looking at me in something like awe and trepidation. "How long?"

I pulled a face. "I don't think this is the kind of question you're supposed to be asking the girl who's on top of you."

"How long, Cass?" His voice was persistent, and a little desperate.

"Nine years," I said grudgingly.

His eyes widened as I watched him put two and two together. I saw realization dawn: _that was when we met._

"You—"

"I always wanted you," I interrupted, my voice quiet and embarrassed. _Poor . He never stood a chance._ "I think even before I knew it."

His eyes widened again behind the mask, and he opened his mouth to say something, closed it, and opened it again.

"Don't say anything," I whispered, leaning forward, breathing the words against his battered lips. When he tried to speak again, I tightened my muscles around him where he was nestled deep between my thighs.

The only thing that came from his mouth was a strangled cry of, _"Jesus, Rourke—"_

"Shhh," I soothed, surging against in the darkness. "For once, Deadpool, just don't even say a word."

He obliged, shutting his mouth and reaching up with worshipful hands to cup my breasts as I rocked against him, my own palms sliding heatedly over his hot, scarred skin. I found, suddenly, that there was a kind of silence I could bear: the kind in deep shadows, moving together, feeling his skin against mine without walls and without barriers, with every breath echoing softly in the resonating quiet of the night.

The tectonic plates shifted. The foundations of the earth moved. The continents came together, the earth reformed, and for the first time in my life, I was _home._

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**A/N: This fanfiction was a fun, exciting experiment in blending comic canon with movieverse. **

**In the movie, we catch a brief glimpse of Theresa Rourke Cassidy in X2 and The Last Stand. The first scene described in this fanfic (the break-in at the X-mansion, and Theresa's warning scream) is from X2, though I believe she is older in the movies—probably around 14 or so, where she's only about 10 here. **

**Her budding teen romance with Jamie Madrox is implied in the novelization of the films. In the comic, she ends up impregnated with his child—kind of. **

**So much of this fanfic was taken from the comics, and other bits were twisted around to fit my needs. **

**Deadpool's personality was more of the giddy comic-style than movieverse, and to be honest I pictured him more as his bulky comic counterpart as well, but I tried to incorporate the movieverse background and powers. His vague commentary on Fox was an allusion to his "comic awareness" (understanding that Deadpool's views are not necessarily my own), which I also tried to incorporate in Siryn's comment about him being the most **_**aware**_** person she knows. The scene with Kitty, of course, in reference to one of the most famous scenes in Deadpool comic history.**

"**Uncle Tommy" is a familiarization of the comic character Black Tom, and for those of you who've read the comic, you know that he actually stole Theresa (Siryn) away from her father when she was a child and raised her as his own. Most of this adaption of Theresa's childhood fits canon-concept (including being raised in Ireland), though obviously it has been altered. Eventually, in the comic, Theresa joins the X-men, and meets and falls in love with Deadpool. I think it's a very moving story arc and was cut brutally short when it could have been a long, bittersweet movement.**

"**I've stood up for you…haven't I?"**

**This line was taken from Deadpool #5 (1997, writer: Joe Kelly), though the circumstances are slightly different (more of this dialogue was adapted as well, in reference to Killebrew/Stryker). I believe, in the comic anyway, that this is also where Theresa reveals that she knows Deadpool has been watching her while she sleeps, and that she feels safe because of it. Siryn's largest impact, too, is that she is always telling Deadpool how deeply she believes he has the capacity for goodness.**

**I love the idea of the merc with a mouth matched up with a fiery redhead with snark of her own, whose real power in fact lies in her voice. In the Origins movie, of course, Deadpool's voice is taken from him—however momentarily—when his mouth is sewn shut and allowed to heal over. Likewise, in the comics, Maria Callasantos tears out Siryn's throat, effectively silencing her until the wound can be fully healed. There is such symmetry there, a real beauty.**

**True empathy, I think.**

**On top of blending the comic-canon and movieverse, I was also trying to keep this in fitting with the rest of my…um, Octoberverse? (**_**See **__**The Victor**__**, **__**Goes the Spoils: An Interlude**__**, and **__**We Don't Believe in Chance**__**).**_** I believe it can be read on its own as a standalone, but other readers may notice familiar names and situations (I fucking **_**love**_** the car bit, as well as its complement in **_**We Don't Believe in Chance**_**). I believe the timeline is kept appropriate (which the exception of Theresa's age) as following movieverse canon **_**and**_** Octoberverse. Which sometimes is more math than my right-brained lifestyle can handle.**

**As for inconsistencies: **

**In the comic, Maria/Feral is killed by Sabertooth, though not in anyway remotely **_**near **_**the context described here. Likewise, I know that Jubilation Lee does appear in all three X-men movies, but I liked the idea of her coming in at the end of this, after Logan has had years to heal from the death of Jean Grey, and after Rogue (and presumably, to a lesser extent, Terry) has been removed from his life. He needs someone to look after, I think, and I hated to leave him alone. :)**

**As an aside, I have altered names for my own preferences (I believe Theresa is referred to as Terry in the comics, but I just love her middle/last names so much that I had to play with them for Deadpool, and "Tessa" seemed a little more "Irish" to me—I don't have any idea why).**

**I recognize in retrospect that this story had less ACTUAL smut and more abbreviated, ending-smut, which I hope doesn't disappoint anyone. Still, the purpose was a character examination (or two), and not the sex itself, soooo…sorry? :( **

**I also recognize that I can't write funny dialogue to save my life, and maybe I have shortchanged Deadpool in this way. However, I think I am happy with the final outcome, and I hope you've enjoyed the ride.**


End file.
